Genesis
by anoushkala
Summary: Every scar has a story. Before he becomes the Joker, James Napier tells his story to Dr. Harleen Quinzel.
1. Chapter 1: Session 2

**Story Notes:**

This is my attempt at giving Nolan's Joker a backstory, and also to incorporate Harley Quinn into the universe.

I take liberties with Harley's character. She's not a carbon-copy of her portrayal in either the comics or the cartoon (though I've been an avid fan of the cartoon for years). In the way that Nolan and Ledger altered the Joker's character to make him more real and current, I tried to do the same with Harley. I tried to stick to the fundamentals of the character, however.

Pamela Isley (Poison Ivy) makes appearances in later parts. I enjoyed their interaction too much to wait until after Harley becomes a villain to bring in Miss Ivy.

This story also features various original character's of my own creation, and one character from an entirely different film. Captain Wilhelm Knauer, of The Longest Yard, who I decided to use as the Security Head of the hospital, since William Fichtner was such a badass during the bank heist at the beginning of TDK.

I'm not making money off of this, so I write solely for the comments. Please review, and I shall love you forever. :-D

Warnings: This story contains slash (male/male), het (female/male), graphic descriptions of torture, including physical, psychological, and sexual, general violence and sexual content. Also, there are character deaths in later chapters.

Disclaimer: Most of these characters belong to a variety of people who aren't me, including DC Comics, Christopher Nolan, and Paul Dini. I'm making no profit off of this... I write for the comments.

OOO

"The session isn't going to be very productive if you're not going to give me anything to go on, Captain." The first session had not been productive either… then again, he hadn't even bothered to show _up_ for that one.

He looks up to her without moving his head, eyes rolling up, and she shivers a little as he peers at her from beneath his eyelashes. She studies his eyes most of all, and has since the first second she saw him. It was very awkward at first, eyes flitting around wildly before chastising herself. She was to maintain eye contact with her patients, to build trust and intimacy between them, and so she struggled to do so, and not let her eyes wander. It had been very hard to get him to talk even a little, and she knew how quickly that little foothold would dissolve if he thought she were staring at his face. But his eyes… she cannot decide what to call them. They are brown certainly, but there's more to it than that. In some lights, they could look almost green, but today, he was caught in a column of light from the bay window behind her desk, and his eyes looked warmer, almost golden.

"Why would you want to know about little old me?"

"Well, it's my job. I'm here to listen, Captain, but I can't do my job if you won't talk, now can I? Are you trying to get me into trouble with the Lieutenant-Colonel?" Standen was an asshole, surely he knew it as well.

He smiles, and it's a very nice smile, she thinks, and what a pity he doesn't smile more often.

"Now that's what I'm talking about." She says, triumphantly, and he sighs, a long suffering sound. She can't help but think of all the things he truly has suffered.

"Alright, doc, you've got me. What do you want to know?"

He's cooperating, at least, and he'd been through five therapists before he ended up with her. They all had the same thing to say: he was the most infuriating man they'd ever had the misfortune to _attempt_ to treat. He would refuse to speak, and sometimes ignore them completely. Those, of course, were his good sessions. The bad ones left his doctor's just a little more frazzled.

The other patients described him as reclusive, and he had not been seen talking to anyone, beyond two, PFC Smith and PV2 Nunez, who he at times could be found playing poker with. It provided some hope that he might be reaching out to someone, making some sort of connection.

Nunez had been caught under a transport truck that had rolled into a canal, shattering both his legs. By all rights, he should still have been in traction, but it was like talking to a child, trying to explain that to him, and so instead, he spent most of his time in a wheelchair, both legs thrust out in front of him like a pair of plaster sticks. He had a smart mouth and a Tex-Mex accent, and never failed to hit on her when she ate her lunch in the cafeteria. He was a bright spot in the hospital, one of the few who still retained a cheery outlook despite his experiences. She hoped he would have a positive effect on the Captain, for the latter man seemed broken somehow.

Even the gold of the sun in his eyes did not make them seem any less… empty. It was as though he had stepped away, inside somewhere, and left something else to deal with the world. It was her job to bring him back out.

"Well, most people find it easiest to begin at the beginning, sooo…what's your earliest memory?"

He takes in a breath, straightening some in the chair and her eyes drifted to his lips, unbidden. His tongue darts out, once, twice, wiping carefully at the corner's of his mouth, before it makes a slow, thoughtful swipe at his bottom lip. She brings her eyes back up to his, terrified for a moment that he will have noticed her staring. His eyes are not on her, in fact, they're not focused at all, staring into space as he thinks.

"Let's see… I'm three years old, and it's foggy, really foggy, and the fog smells like garlic and fish… the docks, that's what they used to smell like. It's early morning, and I'm on a boat, a ferry. We're going downtown..."

OOO

There's a chill in the air, and he feels it acutely because he hasn't gotten a jacket yet this year and all he has are short-sleeves, so he wraps against his mother's legs and huddles against the wind as it rushes past the ferry. He's still a little sleepy, because his mother woke him up early, and marched him down here with her switchblade in her hand, because it's still dark outside. The crackheads just scuttle around in the shadows, and the whores on the corners are as wary of his mother as she is of them, and they make it to the docks without any trouble.

This is going to be the first time he has stepped foot off of the Narrows, the first time he's ever been on a boat. He's very excited, but that doesn't stop him from falling asleep as they wait, the line getting longer behind them as time passes. He sleeps a little too hard, and loses his balance, but his mother smiles at him, hands steady and strong on his shoulders as she straightens him back onto his feet.

"It's coming," she says, and points out into the white space above the water. Slowly, like lines drawn on paper, the ferry appears, first vertical for the bow, two horizontal for the railings, melting out of the fog, and his breath rushes out in a 'Wow' that is tiny even in his own ears, and his Mother smiles and musses the mop of curls they call his hair, before patting it down again. They were the first in line, and the first to climb the gangplank after they pushed it into position. Up top now, they walk to the benches at the side of the boat, and take a seat, and he watches as they load one, two, forty-two cars onto the ferry, him counting aloud as they do.

"Very good, Jackie." His mother smiles again, and he loves her pretty face, with its pretty smile, blonde hair and laughing green eyes. "You didn't need my help at all."

He grins back at her, and laughs out loud, clapping his hands together delightedly when the ferry rumbles to life beneath him.

"It takes about thirty minutes to cross the river, and then we'll walk three blocks north."

"Where are we going, Mama?"

"It's a surprise." She brushes his hair back again, and frowns this time, and unconsciously, he frowns, too. "We need to get you a hair cut, funny face." He smiles broadly again at his favorite pet name, and shakes his head, so the curls fluff out around his ears.

"I like it. It tickles my neck." She laughs, and there's nothing he likes more than to hear her laugh, so he laughs back and leans on her again, watching the city melt away into open water.

"It's all foggy, Mama, we could get lost and never come out."

"We always find our way out, Jack."

The boat ride doesn't seem to last long, and soon he can see the skyline of downtown, and he's speechless, amazed at just how tall the buildings are.

"They're so big. Look at that one, Ma." He points to the largest, toward the middle of it all.

"That's Wayne Tower."

OOO

"Wayne Tower? In Gotham City?" She hates to interrupt him, but she jumps on the first recognizable detail of his recollection.

He blinks for a second, surprised, before forcing his way past it, out of the memory and back to the real world.

"Yes. Have I never said?"

"No." She wants to reply that no, he's certainly never said, he's barely said anything at all. "I was curious. It wasn't in your file."

"No, it wouldn't be, would it?"

"No, I don't suppose so."

"We're ghosts, you know. Erased." She freezes, amazed at the progress she's making. This is the first time he's mentioned his activities as an Elite.

"I imagine it must be hard, being forced to start all over again, like that."

"Not really. Not if you don't have anything to look back to."

"Nothing?"

He shakes his head.

"No family? Not even a girlfriend?"

He smirks at her, and she's staring at his mouth again, because the smirk takes up his whole face, following the incisions, even ending in a little curl on his right cheekbone. It must have been some sick fuck to put that little detail in, she thought, acidly.

"Are you flirting with me, Doctor?"

She's startled, and he caught her staring this time, she can tell. She shifts a little in the chair, and tries to play the whole thing cool.

"Why would you say that, Captain?"

"Just a feeling," he says in return, just as coolly, and she has the disconcerting feeling that inside, he's laughing at her. She clears her throat.

"Let's continue, shall we?"

"Alright, let's see… we were pulling up to the docks on the opposite side of the river. There are two ferries running across the Gotham at any one time, back and forth, starting at the mainland marina, pulling in at the Narrows, the island in the center of the river, then continuing across, intersecting briefly with the Sprang, and heading into final dock on Downtown Island." His hands made tiny, graceful little gestures in the air, sketching out a map that she could picture perfectly when she followed the lines of his hands. "The fog was so thick that morning, though; I never saw the other one pass us. Crazy place, Gotham, thick fog and thicker darkness. The buildings are so tall, they block out the sun, and down at street level, it's kind of this… perpetual twilight."

OOO

They still march down the sidewalk, but his Mother has tucked the switchblade away into her purse, and there are more streetlights. Here the fog smells different, like coffee and baked things, and he looks into shops as they walk by, bakers and florists and greengrocers, all getting ready for the busy day ahead. He's enjoying this little trip more and more, all these new sights to be seen, sounds to be heard. They make the three blocks in good time, and they reach their destination at 6:57, or so says the blinking clock on the First National Bank. It also says the temperature is 59 degrees, but, but he's not paying attention to any of that, because instead, he's staring in muted joy at the sight before him. Massive stone columns and a painted, roughly-hewn sign and….

"THE ZOO, THE ZOO, YOU TOOK ME TO THE ZOO!" He's a whirling dervish of delight, bouncing up and down, and cackling like a little demon, clapping his hands together.

"I thought you'd like that."

First time on a boat, first time away from home, first time at the Zoo! Everything is new to him, not a single old dreary thing that he recognizes, and he squeals loudly and takes his mother by the hand to drag her inside. There are booths on either side of the gateway, with the word 'Tickets' painted on them, with little murals of lions, and tigers, and elephants and zebras, but they've got the little wooden doors behind the glass closed, but he doesn't slow, only notices it as he runs past.

It's still early, and there isn't anyone here but the animal trainers and the janitors and the landscapers. The sprinklers are still running, and there are a thousand little carts rushing here and there with slabs of meat, gobs of fish, vegetables, fruits, and bales of hay.

"This way, funny face." And now she's leading him, because she seems to know the way, and she pulls him past cages full of monkeys, aviaries full of birds, a pool full of hippos getting their teeth cleaned (he laughs to see how big the brushes are). They've caught up to the cart stacked with meat, and follow right behind it, down a little slope and around a curve, into an exhibit with high stone walls and a deep pit with trees and ropes, a huge ball, a pool, and a cave in the back wall. There was nothing in it right now, but soon he heard the creak of a gate, and the cart of meat came trundling in. As though summoned by the sound, the exhibit's inhabitants finally revealed themselves, first a female lion, sleek and dangerous, and he clung hard at the railing, leaning through the first and second bars, staring raptly. The female turned around, snuffling at the air, and let loose a tiny roar, that was echoed by a smaller one, a tinny version of its mothers as two cubs came tumbling out of the cave, all oversized paws and ears as they struggled and fought against each other.

He laughed out loud, turning his eyes upwards to see if his mother was enjoying the show, but he found her eyes on him, not the animals below.

"What is it, Ma?"

"Nothing, Jackie…" She squeezed his shoulders and pointed into the pit again. "Watch them play, Jack."

OOO

She scribbled down the last of her notes as he seemed to draw to a close. She glanced at the clock… five minutes left until her next session. The first thirty minutes had been spent in silence from the Captain, while she made feeble attempts at drawing him into conversation, but the last twenty-five minutes had revealed a wealth of information.

"You seemed to love your mother very much."

He smirked. "Concerned about the relationship I had with my mother, Doc? How very Freudian of you."

She laughed softly, and he nodded. "Yes, I loved her very much"

"Loved?"

"Yes. She passed away when I was seventeen."

"I'm sorry. If I may ask, what happened?"

"Breast cancer. From there it spread to her bones, and it was pretty much all-she-wrote after that."

"I am very sorry," she said again, but he just shrugged.

"It was eleven years ago, plenty of time to mourn."

She made a note of that, as well. The patient was 28 years old.

She had taken this case reluctantly. He had a track record for frustrating the hospital's best psychologists in their attempt to treat him. She was freshly out of college, and she wasn't certain she had the expertise necessary to deal with him, but they felt that perhaps a fresh eye might help on the case. Harley was certain it had more to do with the fact she had blonde hair, blue eyes, and measurements they quoted in rap songs. They were hoping to do with her what you did with a shark, hang some meat over the side of the boat and watch what you can chum up. Men were men, after all. She was having success with this case, but she was certain it was not because of _why_ she had gotten it.

For whatever reason the Captain was opening up to her, it wasn't something so superficial as lust.

She had requested his file the moment she accepted his case, and the instant she did, they laughed at her. When she finally received the file, though, she understood why. Nothing, only his rank, number, and a vague history of his past ten years of military service. Well, the first two anyway. After that, there were plenty of pretty words that meant nothing at all, and had nothing to do with what his work as one of Van Patten's Elite actually involved. She had no name, no birth date, no birth certificate, no fingerprints, no social security number or driver's license, no blood type, and no family history. It was exactly as the Captain had said: they were ghosts, completely erased, existing only in the present moment and nowhere else.

"Well, Captain, our time is drawing to a close. We'll be seeing each other again in four days, on Friday, at this same time."

"Alright, Doc," he says, amiably.

She looks at him for a moment, peering over the top of her spectacles. She has only a slight astigmatism, but she likes wearing them anyway. She feels like people take her just a pinch more seriously when she has them on, and she learned very early in life that people never take a pretty girl seriously. She nods finally, as though having decided on something.

"I want to be your friend, Captain, and your confidante. I don't think we can be friends if you must call me by my title. I would like it if you would call me Harley."

"Harley?" He says, stretching the vowels out like he's feeling the whole word on his tongue, and she's a little disturbed by the shiver she can't repress at that sound.

"Yes," and she's relieved that her voice isn't as breathless as she thought it was going to be. _Pull yourself together, you bimbo!_ "My name is Harleen Quinzel."

He nodded, and for a long moment she did not think she would get anything in return for her offer. Finally, as she began putting his file away, thinking it a bust, he spoke.

"My given name is James Napier…" He licked his lips and looked up to her, and she felt frozen at the intensity, the _unknown_, in those dark eyes. "You can call me J."


	2. Chapter 2: Expectations

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and torture.

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone except for the OC's. I don't claim to, and I'm making no profit from this.

OOO

It was two and a half days later before she had another chance to think about Captain Napier. Hospitals were always busy, and here at Hines VA it was no different. There was no shortage of alcoholism, uncontrollable rage, depression, and the ever-present post traumatic stress disorder; in fact, she barely felt able to fit all of her patients into her work week.

At times, she felt overwhelmed, like she was struggling to swim, and all of the horrors that these men and women had experienced, the atrocities that they themselves had committed, they were all dragging her down, drowning her. But then she would remind herself of all the good she could do, forced herself to think of that, and she could make it through just one more day.

But as was stated earlier, it took exactly sixty hours and thirty-nine minutes for the quiet blonde to meander into her thoughts again. She didn't know what was more discomforting, the man himself, or the feelings he had very strangely evoked in her during their last session. It was patently unprofessional, and Harleen forcefully reminded herself that tomorrow was going to be _different_.

She sighed, and picked up the woefully thin manila folder that, as of this moment, was still unlabeled. Now that she had a name, she took a permanent marker and wrote in neat black letters "CAPTAIN NAPIER, JAMES" across the front of it. It was going to get easier from here, she hoped. Now that she had begun to unlock him just a little, perhaps the flow would increase, like a tiny crack in a dam getting wider. She had now a name, an age, a place of birth, and a glimpse at his childhood.

She had noticed he had not mentioned his father yet, even in passing, and she resolved to broach that issue tomorrow. She made a few more notes on his chart, estimating his height to be about 6'1, hair blonde, eyes brown, and, like most of his fellow soldiers, a tanned complexion. Faded bruises around his eyes, and on the visible portions of his arms, and of course, the most obvious. Twin incisions, from the corners of his mouth, not identical; the rough edges indicated they had been done with some sort of serrated blade. The right side extended upward and back about 4 inches, ending in that sickening little curl on his cheekbone. The left side was shorter, only about 3 inches long, but the pictures taken of his first arrival in the Baghdad medical facility showed that a wedge shaped piece had been hacked out of his cheek, leaving the stitches now struggling to hold his face together. The skin puckered, and pulled tight, and she knew the scarring was going to be terrible. He would need extensive plastic surgery to repair the damage, if he could even bring himself to allow a knife near his face again.

The skin was still inflamed, and deeply bruised, the blood gathering beneath the site of the incisions. The patient had interfered with the sutures, initially. He had been sedated often in the first few weeks after his rescue, still delirious with pain and fever from the infections that had already set in. His attending doctors said that if given the chance to reach full lucidity, he would begin to claw at his stitches, screaming and babbling uncontrollably. Sedation was a much safer option for everyone involved.

Once he had been stabilized, the Captain had been flown back to the US with thirty-four other wounded veterans. The Captain had ended up here at Hines with five others.

The most concrete information in his file existed from the moment of his discovery to the present day. He had been found some ten miles upstream of An Nasiriyah, in an abandoned complex that had been rumored to be harboring a group of Iraqi soldiers not yet subdued. Presumably, the Captain and ten other SpecOps soldiers had been sent to clear out the area ahead of a maintenance convoy they were escorting. The convoy lost contact with them at about 1300 hours on the 31st of March, and they were found seven days later by a Marine S and R, on the 6th of April, in exactly the same location as their last recorded dispatch. The abandoned complex truly was abandoned, holding only the bodies of ten dead soldiers, all killed execution style, a single bullet to the head of each. They had all been bound, gagged, blind-folded.

The Captain himself was found apart from the others, alive, but little more than a breathing corpse. He had been chained to the wall, beaten terribly, and quickly nearing death due to the extensive blood loss suffered from his facial wounds and internal bleeding. His left lung had collapsed, punctured by three of the broken ribs he had suffered; the other two were on the right side. There wasn't a single part of his body not covered with some scrape, cut, gash, or bruise. His knuckles themselves were bloody and raw, suggesting he had not made it easy for his captors.

They said they had found him covered in flies and maggots, devouring the flesh that had begun to rot at the edges of his wounds. The bottoms of his feet had been burned and then cut into a diamond pattern, to make it impossible for him to run. Bits of wood had been driven into his toes and fingers, beneath the nail, and the S and R team had been forced to leave them there, so extensive were his overall wounds: they had higher priorities. There were IV tracks in his hands and his arms, and his chemical analysis revealed that they'd kept him pumped full of a coagulant, and adrenaline. There was a drain wound in the left side of his chest, for the punctured lung. These people, whoever the Captain had been ambushed by, they had denied him escape, relief in any way, even so far as death or sleep.

The pain that man had endured was unbelievable to her. The very fact that he still existed, and so calmly, so… restrained, it frightened her when she thought about it. She had absolutely no idea what was going on beneath the surface: there was no use lying to herself by saying that she understood the Captain yet. The man was a mystery, and she was a little intimidated at the idea of being the one to solve it… but it was her job, wasn't it?

She found herself very nervous at the prospect of what she might or might not find out, and possessing the distinctly anxious feeling that she would fall apart under his gaze again. It made no sense. She was a grown woman, a college graduate, a doctor for Chrissakes! She couldn't flirt with her patient!

She resolved not to allow that to happen again, and when Friday morning came creeping over the horizon, Harleen Quinzel stepped into the gray drizzle and began her walk to the bus stop, calm, collected, and above all professional.

OOO

Her professional demeanor lasts all of five minutes the instant she walks through the hospital's revolving door.

There is a particular claxon blaring, blue lights, the alarm for a fight. Everyone is rushing toward the cafeteria, so Harley carefully shoulders her tote, and takes off after them, running at a good clip for three inch heels. There is shouting and she can hear the sharp snap of flesh against flesh, the thump of bodies on the hard tile. There is a circle of bodies, presumably the two that are fighting are within, hidden from view. Doctors and nurses are desperately trying to stop the altercation, and prevent anymore from occurring as the men take sides in the battle.

It is a chaos of tangled bodies and garbled words, and she finds it hard to shoulder her way through the crowd of men; she eventually resorts to throwing elbows and shoving, and she nearly falls as the circle very suddenly widens. The sudden silence is so strange after the cacophony, but soon reality comes rushing back, and Harley realizes it isn't quiet at all: she hears screaming.

It takes her till some hours later to really process what it is that she sees in the next thirty seconds.

He moves like an animal, not gracefully, necessarily, but infinitely dangerous and unpredictable. His blows are precise, their force, the strength behind them, astounding, and suddenly his opponent is falling, head bouncing off the tile with a crack . She watches in muted horror as he falls upon the other man, and his fist connects once, twice more with the bloodied face. His hand wraps into the collar of his hospital smock, and pulls him up to again slam his head into the ground. That is what Harley expects him to do, and it's what she expects until her brain can no longer deny what she's seeing, because she watches the Captain bow his head and sink in his teeth.

It's almost comical, because at first the man's lips just stretch outward like rubber as the Captain leans backwards, but soon the skin gives way, flesh tearing, and she's staring at the man's teeth and gums as his lower lip simply rips away, hanging down his chin and onto his throat and pouring torrents of blood down his front.

Patients and doctors alike scatter in panic, the noise is deafening, and she hears a splatter as someone loses their stomach's contents onto the cafeteria's off-white floor. Guards and orderlies are pouring in now, looking as bewildered and terrified as everyone else. She's never seen anything like it, the orderlies are much larger than the Captain, but he makes it look easy as he takes them both to the ground, scrambling across their fallen forms and the floor to return to his former target.

The injured man lets out a pitiful, gurgling wail, scuttling on his back like a broken crab. He's screaming, "Get him away from me!" and "He's crazy!" over and over again, but Harley can barely understand it with just his bottom jaw working to meet what was left of his lips.

It only seems to fuel the Captain's rage further, because he lets out a wordless growl, and throws off the guard that had wrapped a massive arm around his neck in an attempt to choke him out.

For the second time, the Captain is on top of his prey, for it was clear what the man was to him now. His victim throws up his hands in an attempt to fend him off; he easily bats away the broken right arm, both hands closing around his left, and Harley watches as though in slow motion as the man's hand wrenches backwards, his forearm snapping in two beneath the pressure of the Captain's grip.

Four guards fall on him at once, then two more when it's obvious the initial dosage of thorazine is doing nothing at all. Three syringes later, the rigidity finally leaves the Captain's limbs, and he collapses in a heap. The bottom half of his face is a mask of gore, strands of his hair painted red and plastered to his skin.

It only takes one orderly to lift the unconscious man and strap him to a stretcher to be taken to isolation… It took six of those men to bring him down.

OOO

Both the Captain and his unfortunate victim had been wheeled off, but the cafeteria was still chaos. It took a good thirty minutes to escort all of the patients back to their rooms, until now, there is nothing left in the room with Harley but overturned chairs and an eight inch pool of blood on the tile. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and she struggled to keep her eyes directed away from it as she waited at the table for the two patients she had summoned here: Alberto Nunez, and Nubby Smith, Captain Napier's poker buddies.

Witnesses had indicated that they had been at the table with the Captain right before the attack, they would know better than anyone just what had happened. Five minutes later her wait ended, and the double doors of the cafeteria swung smoothly open, and the PV2 was rolled through, being pushed by one of the new nurses, a pretty brunette. Nunez doesn't seem to have any smart comments for the ladies today, though.

PFC Smith followed him soon after. He had lost most of his left arm to a malfunctioning hand grenade, and Harley was initially horrified by the name the men called him until she learned that it had been Christopher Smith who had christened himself Nubby. Each soldier had a different way of dealing with their trauma: some denied it, some internalized it, but Smith made it into his own permanent running gag. He didn't seem as bright today, just like Nunez. They both looked rather shell-shocked.

"Thank you for coming here." She offered, quietly, and they regarded her with an almost distrustful air. "I think you both know why I called you."

Nunez is staring at the pool of blood with a sick expression on his face, and Smith glances at him before he looks back to Harleen, pushing his glasses up his nose with his remaining right hand.

"You wanna know what set J-Boy off." He says, simply.

"Yes. From what I can gather, there were only the four of you at that table, and no one else was close enough to hear what was going on."

"He was fucking with him," Nunez snapped, and he seemed to regain some of his usual fire.

"He always fucks with him," Smith continued. "But I didn't think he would do it. He was calling him out. He pushed too far." The words come out like machine gun fire, rapid and staccato, and she holds her hands up quickly.

"Woah, woah. Let's just start from the beginning."

The two look between each other, as though deciding who would take over, before Nunez finally spoke up.

"We always sit at the same table, everybody knows it, so I meet Jack down by the chapel garden cause I go there to say my rosaries in the morning, and we head in to meet Nubs. Now when we get there, Thomas (Major Roderick Thomas, her brain chirrups) is already sitting at our table, but it's a free country, so we just sit down and eat our food. We're talking, cause that's all we ever do, just bullshit and eat, and we're talking about our next poker game, when Thomas starts butting in, and making these nasty comments. So Jack, he's just trying to brush this guy off, but I can tell he's getting under his skin. That's not like Jack, cause he can banter with the best of them, but he's different, he's real sensitive this morning, I can tell. I'm telling Thomas to shut the hell up, but he just keeps running his mouth, taunting him, trying to press all his buttons, and he just can't take it anymore. Hell, I can't take it anymore! So Jack finally stops eating, and he just looks at him like he's only just realized he's there, and Thomas goes 'And what the fuck are you looking at, pretty boy?' I'll never forget it… He smiled, Doc, he smiled at him, biggest fucking smile I ever seen on J's face, and he taps his spoon on the edge of the bowl three times, like he doesn't even know he's doing it, and then…" he trails off, and Harley raises her eyebrows impatiently.

"And?"

"And then Jack takes his teeth and tears his fucking face off." Smith put in, grimly.

"That's it?"

"From start to finish," Nunez says. "Strangest thing, Doc… I ain't never seen a human being move like that before."

OOO

She had spoken to the only two witnesses to the event that were capable of discussing it, and it hadn't told her a single thing. Now she was being called to Lieutenant-Colonel Standen's office completely blind, with no explanation of her patient's behavior today.

Her heels clicked on the tile, and it seemed much too loud as it echoed off the walls, and the hallway seemed to stretch on forever as she made her way to the center of the hospital, and the administration offices.

The wooden double doors at the end of the hall were not typical of the rest of the hospital's architecture. They were French style, with a stained glass insert that left a kaleidoscope effect of light on the floor. It turned her skin into a rainbow as she stepped into it and turned the handle of the door, entering the plush waiting room. She has no time to appreciate the overstuffed chairs because the stiffly shouldered woman behind the secretary's desk looks up, and says curtly, "The Lieutenant-Colonel is expecting you." and Harley has to keep right on walking, straight into Standen's office.

His uniform is crisp, immaculate. He's a short man, head and face carefully shaved, but he is by no means a small man. She cannot imagine that he could have been any stronger the first day out of boot camp, than he is right now.

"Sit down, Doctor." He motions sharply, the gesture moderate, nothing wasted on ostentation. She obeys, and takes the indicated seat.

"You _know_ why you're here, and I _want_ to know why you're here: I want you to tell me why your patient assaulted a superior officer, and, above all, I want to know why you didn't inform your department head the minute you had any reason to believe this man was mentally unstable!?"

Harley doesn't flinch, she learned that in BT, they smell weakness the way sharks smell blood in the water.

"Lieutenant-Colonel, sir, I had no reason to believe he was a danger to anyone. This is the first sign of violent behavior that I am aware of him exhibiting. I had no idea he would be capable of something like this."

"No idea he'd be capable of something like this?" Standen said, incredulously. "I don't think you understand who you're dealing with here, missy. He doesn't need a knife, or a gun, he decides he wants you dead all he needs are his hands." He paused, staring at her as though to let that sink in. "This man _is_ the weapon, and the last I checked we don't hand rifles over to the crazy ones. So what I am telling you is, if you've got any reason to believe this man might be a danger, I need to hear about it. This is not a mental hospital, Dr. Quinzel, I don't have the facilities to house a lunatic. But what I do have is a responsibility to each and every soldier in this building, to give them a place to heal, and above all, to keep them safe. I can't do that if I throw a time bomb into the middle of them."

"He's not crazy, he's not," she says quickly. "I'm not offering excuses for what my patient did, but the Major was taunting him. You must understand, the Captain is under an immense amount of mental strain. He's going to bear those scars for the rest of his life, with no way to hide them from the world. Have you even read his file? What that man endured would cripple anyone!"

"I'll thank you to remember your tone in my office, Doctor."

She gritted her teeth, bowing her head and getting some control over herself.

"I apologize, Lieutenant-Colonel, but all I am saying is that… With all that he has been through, you cannot abandon him now. An asylum is not the place for him, he needs to stay _here_ where people understand him, understand what he's been through. He _can_ be healed, sir." Her eyes were burning with tears, she knew they were, and she'd _never_ been more humiliated in her life, but the Lieutenant-Colonel frowns, gaze on hers, before he shakes his head.

"I'd better not be making a mistake."

"You're not, sir—"

"_Shut up_, Doctor. I'm not finished. I'm giving you a month, that's sixteen sessions to get his treatment together, and if in that time there are no more incidents, then I'll allow the Captain to remain here. If, however, he so much as _squeaks_ at anybody, or if you find out he… threw a rock at a kitten when he was five, I don't care what, any sign that he is a danger to himself or anyone else, I'm gonna throw him in a padded room _under_ the hospital, and you'll _never_ work in Veteran Affairs again, you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." She says quietly, and he throws a dismissive hand out at her, turning back to his computer screen.

"Now get the hell out of my office."

**Chapter End Notes:**

Please feed the Comment Monster! Edwards Hines Jr. VA is a real hospital... it's just outside of downtown Chicago, and I decided to use it since TDK was filmed in Chicago, but I've stolen it and moved it to some fictional city entirely of my own creation.


	3. Chapter 3: Revelation

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

This chapter contains violence and crude language.  
There are actually two stolen quotes in this part. Kudos to anyone who recognizes them, and the movies they came from.

OOO

The water is scalding hot, and she winces a little as it hits her skin, immediately turning it red. She forces herself to relax beneath the spray, feeling the warmth of the water spread throughout her body. She turns her face into the water now, breathing through her mouth and washing her face for what must have been the fifteenth time today. Then again, she'd lost count after the twelfth at 12:30, and it was 7:00 now, so surely she couldn't have made it past fifteen. Oh, no doubt her therapist would be fussing, but she'd taken her medication today, thank you. The only thing was she just couldn't get it out of her head, the blood, blood like fucking paint on his face, and she can't get the feeling off her skin, like the blood was there on her, too. Why hadn't she told someone? She hadn't known… had she? Surely not. If she'd had any idea she would have said something, she was sure of it.

The only problem with hot water was that it did not wash away the lingering sense of complicity that coated her skin as thickly as the blood had his.

She finishes her shower and shuts off the water, pushing the curtain aside sluggishly, unable to think of another night she had returned home so tired. The steam of the shower is dissipating rapidly into the cool air of her apartment, and she hurriedly wraps a towel around her body, the other around her hair. She continues the rest of her routine with the swiftness of much repetition, brushing her teeth, applying lotion to her body and face, changing into a nightgown, brushing and braiding her hair. It takes less than fifteen minutes from start to finish, and she tosses her towels into the hamper before she turns out the bathroom light. She does the same thing every night, and honestly cannot think of the last time she has deviated from this routine. She knows it is a sign of her compulsion, but she cannot find the harm in allowing herself this small comfort.

Her feet make no sound as she makes her way down the hall. It was not the most expensive carpet that they had, but she bought the best padding to make up for it, and nothing feels better than to step through her door after she has walked from one end of the hospital to the other in her pumps, and damn the professional dress code at that place! If only she were a nurse, she could get away with clogs.

She glances at the walls, the pictures hung there, as she walks past, pausing at the very last before she reaches her bedroom, just as she always does. Her eyes linger on the image of her father standing beside her in her parade-ground finest. She reaches up to touch his face, leaving a ring of steam around his head. Was she doing her best? Was he proud of her, of what she had accomplished? It was a never ending quest, though. She could save as many as she could, but it was never going to bring the Sergeant back, was it?

"I miss you, Daddy," she says to the picture, and soon the dark greens of their uniforms blend together into an amorphous blob, and she blinks back the tears, and turns around, walking through her living room, sitting at the kitchen table and picking up his file. When she spreads out all the papers, the photos, it covers the whole of her little table, but comparatively it barely scratched the surface. He consumed her every free moment, but it was justified… he was by far her most difficult and complicated case. And he was dangerous! Whatever she had told Standen that day, she was terrified at the idea of spending an hour shut up in her tiny office with him, 4 times a week, the heaviest course of therapy her overloaded schedule could afford him.

She has four weeks to show marked improvement in his case or she was going to lose her job, and he would be condemned to a half-life of sedation and padded walls. Her only chance was to return him to a stable mental state. They'd never just let him go, not with all he knew. If she could not return him to his sanity, they were both doomed.

She couldn't help but feel Standen was setting her up. He had given her an impossible task, but – she'd had no choice! Of course, she was going to stand by her patient! No one was irredeemable.

She refuses to believe anyone is beyond helping… especially the Captain.

So, for three days after the attack she visits with him, sits and even talks to him, but she has no idea whether he can hear her, comprehend her, or whether his glazed and glassy eyes even see her face. They keep him so drugged that he cannot move, and don't bother with the restraints anymore. He can barely blink, let alone leave the bed. The staff is afraid of him, and the nurses come in pairs to deliver his injections every twelve hours. Harley understands their fear, she saw first hand what he was capable of, but she finds that the longer she looks upon his still form, she feels more pity than she does fear.

"Good morning," she says, leaning forward into his line of sight, and he blinks slowly, showing that they forewent the morning injection as she requested. She smiles to him, and reaches out to dab at the corners of his mouth, the beginning of the incisions; he drools here, ever so slightly, and it angers her, this small humiliation. It's not fair, all that has happened to him, is happening to him now. He didn't deserve any of it. What would his life have been like had this never happened? If he had never joined the Army at all?

His eyes are a little more alert now, creeping slowly from side to side as he takes in his surroundings.

"The drugs will wear off in a few more hours, and tomorrow you can return to your own room. They've been afraid you might hurt someone. You won't, will you?" His eyes drift back to hers, and she can't help but smile fondly at him.

"Don't worry. They'll never do this to you again. I won't allow it. You can trust me, Jack. I'm going to take care of you." And she means it, more than even she knows.

He draws in a breath, but his tongue is thick from the sedative; he tries to speak, but does little more than simply exhale, unable to form the words.

"Shh… We'll talk more tomorrow." She reaches out to brush his hair back from his face, running a thumb along the still-smooth skin of his right cheekbone.

It is only after she does it that she stops to wonder whether it might have been too bold on her part, but he just takes in another slow breath, and blinks his eyes once in recognition. She smiles, and reaches down to take his hand between both of hers: long-fingered and graceful. The palms are calloused, but the back of his hand is soft, and through it she can feel bone and tendon, the rhythm of vein and capillary, his flesh warm and very human. She squeezes it once, tries to express to him how much she believes in him, how much she cares for him and wants to see him whole again in just that single gesture, and carefully lays his hand again upon the bed, standing from the chair and turning to leave.

She can feel his eyes upon her even after she locks the door behind her.

OOO

It is 8 o'clock in the morning, and soon Captain Napier will walk through the door. She had no idea what to expect. He had not exhibited any violent behavior since the thorazine had worn off, but a caged tiger was still a tiger. She sipped at her chamomile tea carefully, but she didn't think it was doing much to keep her calm. Every few minutes she glanced at the doorway, and straightened the yellow legal pad and blue pen on her desk, despite the fact they hadn't moved an inch, and she jumps straight in the air when the knob turns and the door opens.

He looks much the same as any other time that she has ever seen him, but strangely enough the forced rest has done him good: the bruising and inflammation have lessened around the sutures. His eyes still look a little muddled from the drugs, but there is nothing else to suggest that he is operating at less than peak efficiency, in fact it made it all the harder to read him, not that she had ever been able to do that very well, with him at least.

"Good morning, Captain." Hurry, try and look like you haven't been waiting for him for the last twenty minutes.

He nods, but doesn't reply, and she frowns a little. Had they gone back to this, then? She makes small talk for five minutes, but she refuses to let the time drift by like this, not when she has so little of it with him. Might as well be straight-forward…

"Captain, what happened the other day in the cafeteria—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Harley. But I know what I do want to talk about. We're going to go back again, alright?" There is a manic look in his eyes, and she feels a thrill of fear, so she nods carefully, not wanting to provoke him.

"Alright."

He smiles in return at that, beatific and beautiful, tongue swiping sloppily over his lips before he speaks.

"You told me _sooo_ much about yourself, Dr. Quinzel, I only feel it right that I should return the favor."

"What?" She can't keep the surprise off of her face, and he grins, positively gleeful.

"Oh, didn't think I could hear you? It's a good thing you didn't say anything you didn't want me to know, hmm?"

He's making her very nervous today, but she does try and keep that from being visible.

"No, I didn't realize you could."

"To tell me about your father's suicide, your own struggle with your mental health; why, I was touched at your honesty, Doctor. Most wouldn't have said as much… I rather think they'd be afraid I'd use it against them, but not you, Harley-girl. I knew you were different the first moment I laid eyes on you, and I think your case has the most remarkable potential for _progress_."

Her brows knit together, before rising again. "I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean…"

"Never mind that; onto our story, Doctor. You told me all about your father, so I'll tell you all about mine."

"Alright," she says again. He has her off balance already, and he's only been here for seven minutes. She doesn't think it's a very safe state to be in around him, but she brushes the thought away and picks up the pen, ready to take notes.

"We really didn't live in the best of neighborhoods, so I always knew just how bloodthirsty that city was. But when the Wayne's were killed when I was five, that's when everyone caught on… you would think a bomb went off in their living room… it was a call to arms."

OOO

They were the same age. He frowned at the TV screen and the picture that was emblazoned upon it, a freckle faced kid not much older than he was. Bruce Wayne… he knew the name, knew the Tower in the center of the city, but he'd never seen any of them, not the child or his parents, who the TV said had just been gunned down in a back alley.

"God…" his mother whispers and he looks back to her. "That poor child." She gathers him close and he doesn't fight her, letting his mother pull him into her lap and hold him close. She pulls his head against her breast and strokes his hair, but he just watches the TV, where the reporters are interviewing people to get their reactions. After a moment, his mother shuts off the TV, and reaches up to tilt his face to hers. He's never seen an expression like this on her face and he pays very close attention to everything she says.

"It just goes to show you, Jacky… Nobody is safe these days. Gotham's a dangerous place… you've got to know how to take care of yourself. C'mere." She picks him up off her lap, sets him on his feet in the middle of their small living room and he watches her as she walks to the front door, where her purse is hung on a nail. He knows the knife, has seen her pull it out and slide it into her purse a thousand times as they go from place to place, when she comes home late at night from the diner, looking exhausted and smelling of grease. She bends down a little, and puts the knife into his hand, putting his thumb over the mechanism.

He jumps as the blade comes out with a tiny _shick_, the single edge gleaming in the lamplight. He hears his mother swallow, and he looks up to her again.

"If anything ever happens, Jack…you can't let anyone hurt you… and they will, they'll try, you have to make them stop." She wraps her hands around his wrist, guiding his hand to her stomach.

"Here… to here." She runs the blade from one side of her stomach to the other, just above the navel. "Open the abdominal cavity… This is a kill, you slash, and run. They won't be able to chase you, not like that." She guides his hand again, turning the blade so he's holding it to stab, and lays it almost on her back. "These are the kidneys, here," she moves his hand again, "and here. That's a kill. You stab, and run." The knife moves again, circling back to her front and she puts it just at the top of her leg, the base of the hip.

"The femoral arteries, here and here," she gestures to both sides. "You cut deep and run… It will only take a few minutes for them to bleed out… that's a kill, do you understand?" He licks his lips, and nods unsurely, looking back up to her.

"Show me." She lets go of his hand, and he follows the path she set out for him: stomach, kidneys, artery. "Very good, Jack."

OOO

"Oh my god…" She's staring at him incredulously, unable to believe what she's hearing.

"Are you…telling me that your mother put a knife in your hand when you were five and taught you to kill?"

"Is it so surprising? In the Congo they give five year olds semi-automatics."

"This is America!"

"Clearly you've never been to Gotham City…" He smirks at her. She shakes her head, confused.

"I don't understand what this has to do with your father."

"It's a circuitous route, Harl, back to the story."

OOO

He hates his Father. Times are much better when it's just him and his Mom. They do the laundry, and cook dinner, and she listens as he reads books to her and lets him watch the news. Everyone always remarks what a precocious child he is, but his mother doesn't treat him like a child and he loves her for it. There is nothing that his mother can do wrong, but the sentiment does not extend to his father. He's dumb, and mean, and he comes home stinking of tequila and beer and likes to slap them both around, even when they don't do anything wrong. One day his father throws a broken bottle into his face and they have to go to the emergency room to sew his bottom lip back together. The nurses and the doctor are amazed when he doesn't cry, but his mother just looks on in silent pride, and whenever he reaches out with his tongue and feels the prick of the stitches it reminds him what a big boy he is.

Sometimes his father doesn't come home at all, and those are the nights he looks forward to the most. They are few and far between these days, and he takes to sleeping in his clothes and keeping an overnight bag under his bed so that when his father comes home sloshed and raging he and his mother can sneak out the fire escape before he knows where they are. They spend those nights on his mother's boss' couch, and Jack doesn't mind it so much there. He's a nice man, and he has a puppy named Rufus that Jack likes to play with.

They can't always get away, and sometimes he beats them both, and his Mom has to skip work until she can hide the bruises with makeup: no one wants to tip the waitress with the two black eyes and bloody lip.

So time goes on, and day by day he hates his father more, and dreads every time the front door opens, thinking it might be him. But one day his Mother gives him a knife, and everything changes.

It happens the same as always, he stumbles through the front door, smelling like alcohol with a side of urine and vomit, and Jack tenses up just as much as his mother does, but he doesn't do anything more than practically fall into the easy chair. Jack tucks his legs under him and presses into the corner of the couch, getting as far away from the man on the other side of the room as he can. He's slurring and yelling, but he seems to be on a happy drunk as he grabs Jack's mother as she passes and pulls her into his lap. She tries to hide the disgust on her face, but Jack sees it, even if he doesn't.

"Please, Robbie, I've got laundry to do." He's putting his hands all over his Mom, and Jack isn't familiar with the rage bubbling up inside of him, but he thinks he kind of likes it. "Stop it, Rob, Jack's right here."

"Oh don't worry about the little shit, Luce, how does he think he got here?"

"Stop it," she says again, shoving his hands away and his mood changes quickly, shoving her out of his lap and onto the carpet with a thud.

"You dumb bitch… you think you can just say no to me whenever you feel like it? You see this?" His hands tie themselves up in her hair, and he pushes his left hand into her face. "You see this ring? This means I own you, you and your loose fucking cunt." He slaps her, and she yelps, pressing her hand to her face and the red print he left in his wake, and Jack can feel the knife on his hip, burning through the fabric of his pocket.

He's falling to his knees now, pawing at the button of her pants and she struggles against him.

"No! Rob, stop it, not in front of the baby!"

He's had just about enough of her complaints, and he punches her in the face until her mouth and her nose are bleeding and she's crying helplessly, choking on blood and snot as she tries blindly to push him away.

"Stop it!" It's more than he can take, and he flies at the man, landing on his back, flailing with tiny fists and feet and screaming, screaming as loud as he can. "Stop it! Stop hurting her!"

He throws him off with little trouble, and his vision swims as his head contacts with the coffee table.

"Jack!" His mother screams, voice pitiful and watery, and he sees red that makes his eyes sting.

His father spits disdainfully, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek, the four deep scratches the five year old left on his face.

"No fucking respect, these days… None at all… Well, I'll tell you what, Luce, we'll teach you and your little bastard some respect." He's crawling on top of her, and she can't push herself away quick enough, and Jack watches him wrap his hands around his Mother's throat and squeeze.

The anger suffuses his vision more than even the blood, and he can hear himself screaming as he scrambles back to his feet, can hear the swift sound as the metal escapes its sheath and he's stabbing and slashing, not caring what he hits. The blood is warm as it spatters onto his hands, onto his face, and his father swings at him, but for the first time Jack has the upper hand and he ducks under his arm, stumbles in close, both hands tight around the hilt and he keeps stabbing until the cheap t-shirt his father is wearing is nothing but a red rag, cut to ribbons and there's _so much blood_...

OOO

Harley stares at him, the horror plain on her face. She can't tell if he's lying, his eyes have moved in all the right directions, but how can he talk about something like that… so calmly, if it really happened?

"He was 26 when he died, my mother was 21. They tried to pin it on her, the murder. They said it wasn't self defense when he'd been stabbed thirty-two times, but they couldn't find any prints on the knife but mine, and really, who wants to send a five year old up to Arkham Asylum anyway? So it became an open and shut case, and my mother and I entered a program for the… victims of domestic violence. Course, I solved the problem much quicker than they ever could have."

She shakes her head, unable to find words to respond to this.

"You're looking a little confused about this whole thing, and even I was for a little while, confused I mean. The police, their psychologists', they couldn't figure out why I wasn't just a little broken up about it, having to kill my father to save my mother. I got an answer for it though, about fourteen years later, when I met a man named Corian for the second time. He administered my tests when I first applied for the Van Patten project, and three days later he called me back to discuss the results. He sits me down in front of his desk and he goes-"

OOO

"Congratulations, son, you've passed with flying colors, in fact, you're off the charts. You've got an IQ of 198.. You're a certifiable genius, but judging from your scores throughout high school you probably already knew that. What you probably don't know is that you're also a borderline psychopath."

He blinks at the Major, confused… he'd heard what he said, but he couldn't have heard him _right_, not when the man was still grinning at him from ear to ear. Corian laughs, and claps his hands down flat on the desk.

"But to say it like that makes it sound like a bad thing… What it means is that you've got zero guilt, zero fear, and are ideally suited for government service. You're a killing machine, son… Welcome to the Elite."

**Chapter End Notes:**

The movies are Gangs of New York and Spawn (John Leguizamo is a guilty pleasure).


	4. Chapter 4: The Downward Spiral

The nurses who were working the day he arrived had told her about him, long before his file ever ended up on her desk.

Everyone was both amazed and disgusted, the latter for the obvious reasons, the former simply because he had managed to survive what surely would have destroyed anyone else. He'd faltered initially, though; had gone under twice on the plane from Baghdad, twice upon his arrival at Hines, but been revived. But about one day into his stay at the hospital he seemed to drag himself off the doorstep, so to speak. No one knew exactly what made him change his mind, made him want to hold on again. Those nurses had seen so many soldiers die… they recognized death, the smell, could see when they simply wanted to… give up the ghost. He was there, and then suddenly he was not. It was just another mystery about the Captain. At that time, no one had even known his name.

He had grown steadily stronger, his wounds healing when he let them, and soon he was well enough to leave his room. He'd struck up the friendship with Nunez and Smith almost immediately, and in the following two months managed to make it through five of the hospital's finest psychiatrists without an inch of progress between them.

Now she understood why he had developed such a reputation with them.

His moods were erratic, he had a _definitive_ impulse control issue, and he was manipulative, she was learning that quickly. He enjoyed causing discomfort and confusion in his attending physicians and fellow patients. Combine his intelligence, the training he had received…. Well, they'd created a monster, to put it simply. Trying to control the Captain at this point was like trying to reign in a hurricane: absurd, impossible, and you'd most likely _die_ trying to do something that stupid. The only power they really had over him was what he was allowing them, though she didn't think the higher ups would like to see it that way. But how long could they really control a man like that, a 'killing machine' as he'd said? What was really stopping him from taking all of their training and turning it against them?

Harley was sure that was why men like the Colonel found him so threatening.

She was going to have to keep her cards much closer to the chest from now on. She had seriously underestimated him. _Anything you say can and will be used against you_, she thought. It was a hard balance to strike, keeping a safe distance from him while still trying to win his confidence. She couldn't let on how much he frightened her, or things would quickly go downhill. The really scary thing was she had no idea exactly what that meant, all she knew was that she had to keep the balance of power in her favor, had to.

Thus far, she had managed to keep herself in check, but she was supremely disturbed to find that her inexplicable attraction to him had not lessened, for all that she found herself afraid of him at times. The simple fact of it made her want to question her own sanity. This man had been lethal long before the military had gotten their hands on him, and yet she found herself staring at the strong lines of his shoulders, the quirk of his lips, the dart of his tongue like a pink punctuation mark, every few sentences.

She felt very close to losing control of the situation but she no longer had the option of passing his case on to someone else. She was just going to have to try to hold herself together. She couldn't help him when she too was falling apart. And she had to be at the top of her game… From what she had heard so far, the man had years of trauma in his history, not even including the incident that had sent him here to Hines in the first place. She was in over her head, no doubt about that. Standen expected her to fail, which meant her only course of action was to prove him wrong, save both herself and the Captain.

Harley wearily looked up at the clock. 8 PM. She'd been here for thirteen hours now.

If she wasn't careful, this job was going to put her in a padded room right beside Jack's.

OOO

Captain Napier was returned to the general population of the hospital the day after Major Thomas had been transferred to the VA Hospital one state over. No one knew exactly who had asked for the transfer, Thomas or someone else, but no one really questioned why it had been asked for, that much was obvious. For the first week, everything seemed normal. Nunez and Smith welcomed him back with open arms, and the three returned to their daily poker tournaments in the cafeteria. Their presence seemed to do him good, and some of the manic energy left him over the following days. However, that did nothing to soothe his fellow patients, who regarded him as a bird might a snake: a deadly presence never to be forgotten or trusted. They gave him a wide berth wherever he traveled in the hospital, but that seemed to be exactly the way he wanted it, and things in the hospital continued on much as they always did.

The next four sessions were particularly illuminating, and Harley learned more of his childhood and teenage years. When he was seven, the kind man who owned the diner his mother worked at became his stepfather, and they moved to the north side of the island. By that time he was already in the fifth grade, and understandably had few friends beyond his mother and the Rottweiler named Rufus that quickly became Jack's the instant he moved in. He was distrustful of him at first, but it became apparent with time that he was a good man, and treated him and his mother very well.

Harley thought it must have been a good influence on the child he had been to finally have a positive male role model in his life.

He developed quickly, and graduated from high school at the age of 15, entering Gotham University at 16 on an academic scholarship, and leaving again at the age of 18 to join the Army. No doubt the decision had something to do with his mother's death from cancer a few month's earlier, but he never mentioned it, sharing only the conversation he'd had with his stepfather ("You get outta here, boy…. Get outta here and don't ever look back on it… Let this city burn to the fucking ground, but don't ever look back…")

He finished his college education at West Point through a distance-learning program with George Mason, graduating Valedictorian with a major in chemistry, and a minor in physics. He applied and was accepted into the Van Patten project between the ages of 19 and 20, and had been a part of that elite group for 8 years now, in that time earning his Master's in Chemistry, and a score of other achievements in his chosen and highly classified field of Weapons Development. At the age of 26, however, they brought him out into the field full time, and for the past two years he'd been serving in Iraq as the leader of a small group of Special Forces operatives.

The last two years on her timeline, 26 to 28, were woefully sparse; he glossed over the details, and sidestepped every attempt she made to learn about his activities during that time. He would say only that he'd been sent there to train them, and that was as far as Harley could make him go.

He spoke flatly about the men he had killed, however, without the least hint of the remorse and regret that plagued the other soldiers she counseled. He said he remembered almost all of their faces, and while that information disturbed her, it also intrigued her, and further testing revealed he did in fact have a nearly photographic memory. When asked to look at 30 objects for 3 seconds, he could recall 29 on average; with 60 objects, he could recall 57. He could do fuel consumption algorithms in his _head_ and each day revealed some new and fascinating aspect of his personality. Harley found it easy to forget that she had been afraid of him only a few short days ago, and began looking forward to their sessions more and more. He wasn't going to hurt her; more than anything she believed that he truly was coming to regard her as a friend, was beginning to trust her. She would never be able to help him as just his doctor… she had to become something just a little bit more.

Their regular sessions had become fruitless, however, and by the time of their eighth meeting, Harley decided to try something a little different. When he arrived that morning, she waited until he was seated to throw the cards at him. He looked a little startled as the pack hit him squarely in the chest and bounced into his lap. He picked it up, looking at it quizzically, before turning the look on her, one brow arched. She just grinned in return.

"Teach me."

He frowned for a moment, then opened the pack, shaking them out into his left hand with a swift skill she could appreciate: it was something he'd done many times before.

"I'm sure the US taxpayer's would be thrilled to hear they're paying you to play poker on the clock."

"Well, we've talked about everything that can be talked about, we have to do something to fill the time." His lips were quirked in that eternal smirk, eyes turning up to regard her. He didn't need to look, and her eyes drifted down to watch as he parted and shuffled the deck with precision.

"You're good at that."

"Well, they've always said I was good with my hands."

It was entirely inappropriate how much she enjoyed their time together, but none of her other patients were nearly as interesting as the Captain, and none of them could quite compete with his wicked sense of humor.

"No response to that, Doctor? It's no fun baiting if you don't bite."

"I can't let you win all the hands, Jack."

"You'd might as well get used to it." He grinned back to her, and counted out five cards for each of them.

"Sure you aren't just a little overconfident?"

"Am I?" He said, and laid out an impossible hand, all 4 aces.

"You cheated!"

"Alright, you deal.."

"Fine." She wasn't nearly as proficient at the cards as he was, and he watched her in obvious amusement as she clumsily cut the deck and then shuffled it, counting out the cards.

"You'd never make it in Vegas, sugar. I've already seen half of your cards."

"How? I've kept them turned toward me this whole time."

"While you were dealing," he says, and lays down three of his cards, smoothly picking up the three she pulls off of the deck for him. "You're a liar, you know."

She stopped, hand poised in the air to pick up three cards of her own. "Why would you say that, Captain?"

"You don't need to me to teach you anything."

She frowned as she laid her cards face-down on the table. Nothing. He laughed and threw down a pair of deuces.

"Maybe you need me to teach you how to cheat. Or if you want to keep losing all day, we can make this _really_ interesting."

"Wh—" But she didn't need to finish the sentence, the lascivious look he was giving her said it all. She blushed furiously, and tried desperately to ignore the little ball of warmth that was growing in her belly. "Now, Captain, that's inappropriate."

"Appropriate is relative, Harl, most things are." He tilted his head, leaning back in the chair and steepling his hands together. "You can't pretend you don't know how _every_ man in this hospital looks at you."

She snorted. "I'm quite aware of how they look at me… like a piece of meat, little else. No one takes you seriously when you look like I do."

"Now, see me, I try not to take anything seriously, Harley, you should really look into it." And with that, he gave the chair a whirl, hair flying out around him wildly. She laughed, watching him. He was such a strange blend of menace and childishness that it was nearly impossible to sort the two out. "My mother gave me the best advice I've ever gotten from anyone. Throughout life you'll always have a choice, either laugh or cry. Always laugh, sugar, always."

She nodded. "I can see that."

"I always laughed… and now I'm always smiling, too, he made sure of that, didn't he?"

She froze in her chair, afraid that if she moved the entire moment would unravel.

"Who gave you those scars, Jack?" she says quietly, eyes widening as his turn back to her, but without the slightest hint of mirth now, the change in his mood sudden and complete.

"Do you know what it's like to scream till your throat is bleeding, Doctor? What it's like to hear a grown man cry, scream, beg for you to make it stop, to help him, but you can't, because you can't even help yourself? Do you know what that's like?"

"No… I don't."

"I do."

She swallows slowly, licking her lips carefully. "You… don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to."

"We'll broach the subject eventually," he says, almost savagely. "You've got a knack for opening me up, Doc. But I would suggest you be sure you're ready, before we look behind Door #1, hmm?"

It was true, of course; she didn't think she was ready at all.

OOO

Their session essentially ended on that note. They played a few more hands, and Harley even won a few, but nothing of any value was said. He seemed very cold as he left, and Harley could barely focus on the rest of her day, she was so upset by her blunder. If she'd ruined all her hard work with one stupid question… she was…well, she didn't know what she was going to do, but she felt like screaming, she was sure of that. The ever-present chignon was giving her a headache, and she pulled the pins out one by one, tossing them disgustedly into the paperclip bowl on her desk. Her final patient of the day, Charlotte Turner, had left her office at 5:15, and at 5:20 Harley was staring moodily at the corner of her desk, a single thought circling through her head over and over. _You idiot_, she thought despairingly, and scrubbed her hands over her face, looking again at the pack of cards still sitting on the desk's corner…

She couldn't let it end like this.

OOO

There was no use trying to walk quietly, her heels tapped on the floor and echoed up and down every hall she walked through, and finally she reached her destination, the third wing of the hospital, on the fourth floor, room 407. She stared at the door for some time, but finally gathered the courage to knock after a nurse and several patients looked at her strangely as they passed by.

"Come in," was the disinterested reply from inside, and as she opened the door and stepped inside, she found he hadn't moved a muscle to face whoever was entering his room. He was stretched out on the bed, arms behind his head, ankles crossed, and she knew this was a mistake the instant she breeched the room, her eyes drawn inexorably to the scars on his chest, stomach, arms… or more unsettlingly, the skin beneath them.

He moved finally, pulling his arms down and propping up on his elbows.

"Enjoying the show?" He said, in an amused tone, and she could barely bring herself to look back to his face, the knowing look in his eyes.

"I… I just wanted to apologize for today… for upsetting you."

"If you're really so torn up about it, I could think of a few ways you could make it up to me." The blush was burning in her cheeks again, eyes darting down to the floor, losing sight of him. It was a mistake. She lost her balance when he was very suddenly in front of her, teetering on her high-heels and falling backwards into the corner by the door.

"Well, I wasn't talking about that, but if you insist…" He grinned widely at her, and her tongue felt as pliable as a brick as he moved smoothly forward, and his fingers ran back through her hair casually, brushing pieces behind her ears. "I'd like to go outside. I'm so sick of looking at these walls I could scream."

She blinked, thankful for the change in subject, and dragged the shattered pieces of her self-control back into a semi-organized heap somewhere in her mind.

"Yes, I'm sure that can be arranged."

"Such a sweet girl," he purred, hands sliding down to cup her face, and she could not pull away enough to stop him. "You needn't be afraid of me… You're more important than you know, hmm?" She drew in a shaky breath, trying carefully to get her fingers beneath his, pry his hands away… she couldn't _think_ when he was touching her.

"Ah, ah.. no, no, look at me." Her eyes had been flitting wildly again, and she remembered the first moment she'd ever seen him, how shocked she had been, but now that face was very close to hers, and it wasn't _fear_ she was feeling. She finally dragged them to a stop, focusing on him. "Do I make you nervous? I think you're… _shaking_ just a little… but I wonder… what scares you more? What I might do? Or what… _you_ might do?"

She closed her eyes tightly at the first warm puff of breath against her lips, unable to believe this was happening, but abruptly there was nothing there at all, and her skin felt conspicuously cold where his hands had been. When her eyes snapped open, he was on the other side of the room, stretched out again as though he had never moved at all.

"I'll see you on Monday, Harley…" He grinned, as smug as the cat who ate the canary, and she quickly turned and fled the room without fulfilling the purpose she'd come here for in the first place.

Back pressed to the closed door, she groaned, hands over her face. Jesus….. she was _really_ in over her head


	5. Interlude: Knife's Edge

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

This chapter contains sexual content with an original male character.

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone but my original characters. This is not for profit, and no copyright infringement is intended.

OOO

"I think I'm losing my mind, Pammy."

There was silence on the other end of the phone before:

"That's a hell of a way to answer the phone, Harleen."

She sighed, and sank down further into the bubble bath.

"I looked at the Caller ID," she replies glumly.

"I figured. Alright, so what's got your panties in a knot, chick?"

Harley snorted. "You have no idea how accurate that statement is, Pam."

"Panties in a – oh there's a guy, huh."

"Yeah… you could say that, I guess."

"You guess? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well," she said quietly, shoving the bubbles around with her free hand.

"Spit it out!"

"Okay!" She hissed back. "He's one of my patients."

"Oh…. OH! Girl, that's a big no-no, you know that."

"Yeah, I know that, but _he_ doesn't! I mean, he… the man has _no_concept of personal boundaries, whatsoever. And he's got a real problem controlling his impulses, if he wants to do something he just does it, no thought put into it at all. Do you have any idea what it's like to work with someone like that? I mean, half the time I don't know if he's going to kiss me or kill me. Hell, he had me in a corner today, literally."

"So you aren't just a little scared of this guy?"

"I am, that's what's so screwed up about it. It's like, sometimes I forget how dangerous he can be, and he's just this… poor little injured puppy, you know, and you want to fix him… You'd do anything just to get him to smile again."

"That's what therapists do, isn't it?"

"I guess" she trailed off weakly.

"Anyway, tell me about this guy. What do you mean he's dangerous?"

"Well, he's Special Forces. You know, those guys are all bombs and stealth and… _crazy_fucking strength… You have no idea how strong he is. I mean, right before our third session he just… lost it. It took six orderlies to bring him down, Pammy, six. And these are not tiny guys. They had to give him three times the tranquilizer for his size to knock him out."

"Are you sure you're safe spending time with this guy?"

"Yeah. I mean… I think I am. He hasn't shown any real hostility toward me, but then again, with his mood swings… He makes Sybil look stable. I mean, I'm not talking laughing and crying two minutes apart, I'm talking cracking a joke and then tearing someone's face off."

"Isn't that exaggerating just a little?"

"Not really. Because he _did_, Pammy, he tore this guy's face off."

"What? How in the hell did he do that?"

"With his teeth. He bit him, and his fucking lip was hanging down his chin, I could see his _gums_."

Silence again for a long time.

"I mean… the guy he attacked was taunting him."

"Yeah, but…"

"I told you he had trouble controlling his impulses."

"Jesus Christ, Harl, what have you gotten yourself into? You know what, just… just stay right there, okay? We need to talk this over in person. I'll be over in a little bit."

OOO

Thirty minutes later, Harley crawled out of her now lukewarm bubble bath, threw on a robe, and went to answer the door.

The redhead in the hallway snorted.

"Real spiffy, Harls, nice to know you dress up for me." She said as she stepped past Harley into the small entryway.

"Cause you can talk so much, seeing as you're still wearing your uniform."

She glanced down at the muddy green Isley Nursery t-shirt and khaki shorts she was wearing.

"Alright, so I guess I can't talk."

"And you've been out of work for how long?"

"Actually, I had inventory today, I was just leaving when I called you."

"Well, I jumped out of the bath when you knocked on the door."

"So we've established that we're both woefully unprepared. Now about what I came here for," she said, as she headed past Harley into the kitchen, throwing the bag she was carrying onto the table. Harley followed behind her best friend listlessly, stopping at the refrigerator to pull out two cans of soda.

"Nope. I think we're gonna need something a little harder for this. I brought margaritas… hey what's this?"

She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach, stopping midway to getting ice out of the freezer, and looking over. Sure enough, Pam had found the picture left on the table.

"What's wrong with his face?"

"Dammit, I didn't mean for that to be out, Pam! Give that back!" But the redhead had already snatched it away, dancing out of her grasp and holding up th to see it better. "You can't look at that, Pammy, it's government property."

"It's just a picture. Besides, I work in a fucking greenhouse, Harleen, who am I gonna leak information to, my Purple Hearts?

Harley gave up, sighing and sinking into one of the four chairs and setting the two ice-filled glasses on the table. "Alright."

"Now, like I said, what happened to this guy's face? Is this the one your little sex toy bit?"

"Pamela!" The redhead snickered in response. "No, that's him… the Captain, I mean. His name is James Napier. He's from Gotham City."

"I heard that's a rough place."

"Yeah, so I've heard as well."

"You still haven't answered my question, blondie."

"Somebody cut him open. Wait a second." She stood up from the kitchen table and walked to her bedroom to retrieve the folder she'd hastily filled and stuffed away earlier today, returning a moment later with it. She opened it and began riffling through the pictures, handing several of them to Pam.

"They really did a number on him."

"Yeah. But do you see? When you've… seen someone like that, totally torn down… how can you really and truly fear them?

"Yeah," the redhead said, as well. "No wonder the guy's screwed up."

"It's worse than that, though. They gave him adrenaline, so he…he was awake, conscious, through everything they did to him. He said he could hear his men screaming in the next room, but he couldn't do anything to help them. They murdered his entire team and left him for dead."

"Why'd they do all this to him?" Pam looked up from the pictures.

Harley shook her head. "I don't know. I can't get him to talk about it. I guess it's just… too fresh in his mind, you know? He's the only one left alive who knows anything, but he's not talking. No one even knows _who_attacked him, let alone why."

"Wow."

"And it's insane, really. This guy is just… a natural born killer, I should be completely terrified by him, and, I mean, sometimes he does scare me, his temper's so short, but… I end up forgetting about it the next time I talk to him… and I even _try_to keep it in mind, but he's just… charming. And I must be crazy myself but…"

"You've got the hots for him."

Harley gave a tiny wail and clapped her hands over her face for the second time today.

"Yes. I think I'm losing my mind, Pammy."

Another snort. "You must also be losing your memory, because you've already said that."

"Well, I mean it."

"You just need to take a chill pill."

"Or have one of those margaritas." Her friend laughed and finally cracked the bottle open, pouring the pre-mixed into the waiting glasses.

"No salt, but it's alcohol." She pushed one over to Harley and clinked their glasses together when she took it. She took a sip, the blonde across from her drained it in a few gulps. "Wow, you're really trying to get drunk tonight."

"I just don't want to think anymore, Pammy. I've been thinking for days and days and days and it hasn't done me a damn bit of good."

"I'll tell you what you need to do, Harl. You need to put on some makeup, fix your hair, spritz on some perfume and really slut it up."

"Very feminist of you." She held out her glass to be filled again.

"I'm not saying it like a bad thing. Now let me finish. You need to go catch a taxi, pick the first bar you come to next to the base, find the first lonely private from Bumfuck, Nowhere, and play with _his_privates."

"You're horrible," Harley groaned, sipping a little more slowly at her second drink.

"And you're more of a freak than I ever figured you for. But if you're finding that having the willies scared out of you turns you on, hell, get him to tie you up and smack you around just a little, some guys are into that, or they will be if _you're_into it. I guarantee you, one good roll in the hay and Captain Jack here won't bother you so much… no matter how… dementedly hot you think he is. How long has it been since you and Chad broke up?"

"8 months." Harley said quietly.

"See? You're just really in need of a good lay, that's all."

Harley grimaced, thinking it over. It certainly would do her good to release just a little of this tension…

"You might be right."

"I always am, chick. Now, I need to go take a shower, and you can call me back in the morning and tell me how much you loved my idea."

"Alright, Red," Harley said, and returned her hug and kiss lightly, not wanting to get mud on her white terry cloth robe.

"I'll see you later, sweety. Try and have fun."

She saw her closest friend to the door, and upon entering the kitchen again looked at the two still-full glasses on the table. After a moment's consideration, she drained both and poured herself one more, face feeling very warm as she walked to her bedroom.

A few minutes later she pulled the towel off her wet hair and stood before the mirror for a long time, simply staring at herself. No bun, no glasses, no makeup, no white lab coat, just plain old Harleen, bare, exposed, vulnerable. She never left the house without her makeup on. To look at her now, some people would say she didn't even need it, but she knew better than they did. Most soldiers strapped on their armor, she painted hers on with a series of brushes and colors.

She wore her instruments tonight in layers, starting with her lingerie, tight blouse, short skirt, five inch heels now. She wasn't out for conversation tonight, was she? No need to confuse the prey with an unfamiliar set of weapons.

She blew the moisture out of her hair, left it down, long and flowing. Then, the final layer, the crowning achievement, began with a layer of foundation, leaving her skin pale and flawless, luminous as a pearl. Just enough liner to bring out her eyes, and the cherry on top. Red, the color of passion, lips lined and painted precisely.

She stopped and looked herself over critically. A living Barbie Doll stared back at her from the mirror, and she nodded. She didn't have to be herself to accomplish her ends tonight.

In fact, she thought it better if, for tonight, she were someone else entirely.

OOO

These places were all the same: smoky, deafening, dark.

When she first arrived, she forgot about her plan almost entirely, and simply took the moment to disappear in the crowd, becoming just another anonymous body writhing on the floor. But she didn't blend in, oh no, there wasn't a single eye that hadn't drifted her way just once; others weren't quite so discreet, and stared at her hungrily from the edges of the room. Those were her targets, and she pulled their desire to a fever pitch, dancing like she knew they were watching because they all were.

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly, and she drew them in like moths to the flame: promises of ecstasy before sweet immolation.

She needed no partner, ignored the hips that pressed against hers, the arms that tried to encircle her; no hands touched her but her own, and she lost herself in the sensation of it, the throb of the music syncing in with her heartbeat, spinning in the dark until there was no discernible difference between she and it. Beads of sweat glistened on her skin, and she gave herself to it, to the nothingness within the noise.

Her chest was heaving, heart pounding when she finally stopped, weaving her way through the sea of people and to the bar along one wall. She didn't order a drink, didn't need to. The bartender placed one in front of her before she had a chance to even settle herself on the stool. A screwdriver, she smirked, and followed the bartender's gesture to her lucky victim.

Young, maybe even younger than she was; he was dressed in civilian clothing, but the stiffness in his posture, the High and Tight both gave him away. There was still a babyish roundness to his face, and Harley knew as sure as the sky was blue that he hadn't seen so much as an hour of combat, probably hadn't even held a gun outside of the rifle range yet. She wrapped her lips around the straw, and winked at him, that universal come-hither look and oh! How cute. He almost looked nervous as he made his way over to her.

"I saw you out on the floor."

Of course you did, she thought, and gave him a bone-melting smile.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Karl… Karl Daniels." He offered his hand and she took it, watching the shiver that tore through him as she ran her nails over his palm while pulling away.

Perfect.

She leaned in, uncomfortably near, invading his space and pressing so close her lips brushed the shell of his ear, and he shivered again.

"You can call me Harley. But it's so loud. What do you say you and I go somewhere quiet?"

His eyes widened, mouth working for a moment without a sound. Didn't think it would be that easy, did you? She thought with amusement as he quickly nodded. As she got to her feet she found he was a head taller than her, just over six feet, but he trailed behind her like a lost puppy as she headed for the door.

"Do you have a car?"

"No.. I, uh, I live on base."

"We'll catch a taxi, then."

"Where are we going?" He asked carefully.

"My apartment."

He sputtered a little at that, and she arched an eyebrow at him. "Something wrong?"

"N-no," he said after a moment.

It wasn't terribly hard to flag down a taxi. All one had to do was show a little leg, an easy prospect when she had so much to show.

She had a knack for making people talk, and she dragged the information slowly out of the timid young man, once inside the taxi. 25 (he was younger than her), Mississippi (softly accented voice had already given that away).

His thigh was tensed to trembling when she laid her hand upon it, and some unfamiliar part of her reveled in his unease.

"Ooh, you're shaking," she purred, and a much deeper voice than her own echoed through her mind. His eyes darted up to hers, and she smiled in a way that wasn't soothing in the least. "Poor little thing, are you cold?"

"No," he stuttered again, and she could see the blush in his cheeks under each streetlight they passed.

"Maybe just a little distracted, then." Her hand slid higher, brushing over the hardness in his jeans and his whole body gave a start.

"Ooops," she trilled, and batted her eyelashes, watching as he actually fell for the oldest trick in the book.

She lived in the housing complex not five blocks off base, and it took no time for the taxi to arrive. Her toy paid… how very chivalrous of him. She entered the building, dispassionately noted that she was weaving just a little on her high heels, and walked to the elevator.

The tenth floor was their stop, and he finally seemed to regain some of his courage as the doors slid closed, cautiously slipping his hands over her shoulders, and she arched hard, shamelessly back against him. It wasn't _gentle_ she wanted tonight. He gasped, and his hands slipped lower as she turned in his grasp, circling her waist and pulling her impossibly closer, and yes, yes, God yes she had missed this. Firm warm flesh, and rough hands pulling at her shirt, tugging it out of her skirt and finding the bare skin underneath. He tasted plain, like mint toothpaste and tonic water, but he was deliciously _warm_ and _real_ and _hard_under her hands.

The doors slide open, and they stumble past a shocked looking middle-aged couple, down seven doors and around the corner to her apartment. It was hard to find the key with her back to the door, his weight pinning her against it, but she managed to find it, wrenching open the lock and slamming the door shut behind them.

He opened his mouth, the beginning of a word filling it: she replaced it with her tongue and felt his moan rumble into her chest as her hands fumbled with his belt. She didn't want to talk, didn't want to think, only feel. Looking back, she had no idea exactly how or when they made it to the bedroom, but it only mattered that they were there, the salt of his skin in her mouth as his tentative fingers found the lace of her panties.

"Jack," she moaned, and suddenly he was frozen under her hands.

He'd heard that just as clearly as she had.

"My name's not Jack," he said quietly, and she nearly sobbed as she pressed a hand to her mouth, retreating to the farthest edge of the bed. He frowned and made a move to reach out for her, but she shook her head.

"I can't do this," she whispered, and he groaned, looking momentarily stricken, before…

"Look. I know this isn't about love, we're never gonna see each other again after tonight. Whoever he is… I mean… look, if that's what you need then… it's not gonna hurt my feelings if you just… imagine… I… you just can't leave me like this."

He tried again, and she didn't pull away this time, mind whirling. Her hands slid over his and she brought them up to cup her face as she closed her eyes.

She couldn't, couldn't do this, couldn't imagine this, but she found the image came easily, unbidden to the surface, disguising his tall form as another's, and as it found his cheek, the smooth skin became ridged with scars beneath her tongue, and she moaned helplessly, the surge of heat inside of her unbelievable.

"That's it, Harley," he whispered, but even his voice now belonged to someone else, as surely as she did.

OOO

Two hours later, and she found herself alone in her apartment again. The bed was still warm beside her, but she ignored it, unable to pull her attention away from the marks that covered her skin. Bites, scratches, bruises, some in the shape of his hands, others following the lines of his teeth or the twine he'd used to bind her to the bed. He'd been so very willing to bend to her desire: to bend to another's will.

Two hours later, but she hadn't stopped thinking of the Captain even once.

Things hadn't gone according to plan at all.


	6. Chapter 5: In Memoriam Mei

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

The Clown Suit reference is to the original Halloween of 1978.

OOO

She didn't recall her mother as often as she did her father these days, though for a time in her life she supposed it could have been said that they were close. Her paternal grandfather had also been an enlisted man, and her father had grown up across the country and the world, moving with each new post assignment. He had not wanted to do that to his wife and young daughter, and so they stayed on base while he moved accordingly. He always came to visit as often as he could, but it was never often enough for little Harleen, who was a Daddy's Girl if ever there had been one.

When he was home, he carried her everywhere across the base, and his subordinates and superiors alike came to expect her to be attached to him like a tiny, blonde third arm. They called her Private Quinn and pinched her cheeks, and she grew up planning war games and cleaning her father's favorite rifle the way most girl's grew up playing house and dressing up to be just like Mommy. She wanted to be just like Daddy and made her bed with a military crease and looked forward to nothing else as much as she did the first tap of her father's boots in the hallway.

Harley reflected that some of the alienation between she and her mother existed because the older woman found her a mystery: this pretty little girl who stomped her feet and pouted until she had her hair up in pigtails and her favorite red dress on and then ran screaming into the streets with a plastic machine gun to play Soldier with the neighborhood boys. It wasn't as though she didn't like the girls her age, but they wanted to play with Barbies, which weren't nearly as interesting as Harley's GI Joe's. They didn't even come with guns!

The rest of it? Looking back, she thought it might have been simple jealousy. Her mother hated the Army. It stole her husband away for months at a time, and now it had even taken her daughter from her, made her into something she couldn't understand, couldn't relate to, so her mother began to search desperately for some common ground between them. She found it one day when Harley asked to learn to cartwheel. She picked up that first trick in a few days, and Harley discovered she had a talent for tumbling.

Her mother was ecstatic. She herself had at one time been a champion gymnast, had once had a chance to go to the Olympics, but, being an old-fashioned girl at heart, had decided to marry instead. When she discovered that she had passed this talent onto her daughter she quickly found a trainer, and so began Harley's years in competitive gymnastics, and yes, perhaps her mother had been living vicariously through her in that time, but she valued it nonetheless.

Her coach believed in training his students in every aspect of the sport, and she learned to do it all, the horse, the vault, floor routines, the parallel and the uneven bars. It was hard, unvarying training, but Harley was a born soldier and she thrived under the constant discipline, the never ending critiques. Her Coach was never satisfied with anything, told her that she could always do better, and the next time, she always did.

She was best at floor routines, somersaulting and hand-springing through the air as though she could defy gravity itself, but her favorite, oh her favorite were the uneven bars. There was something terrifying about it that she loved, spinning faster and faster until that final moment when her hands released the bar, and she was flying out into nothingness, falling and flipping for what could have been forever. She never failed to lose herself in that moment, however, and nearly always botched the landing, sending her Coach into conniptions. The result was she never really got to train on the bars, and consequently lost that category in every competition, but she developed an almost irrational love for it, like a suicide victim leaping from the top of a building, arms spread wide and welcoming the ground rushing up toward her.

It gave her father an excuse to come home more often (he _had_ to watch her at her meets, Harley made that perfectly clear) which neither she nor her mother minded in the least. Her father didn't seem to mind it much either, because one day her mother began to get fat, and soon she had a baby brother named Gregory. He became her very own blonde baby doll, and she carted him around everywhere the way her father had done when she was little. Her mother and father doted on the little boy endlessly, but Harley wasn't jealous; she spoiled him just as much, and always shared her toys with him, passing on her soldiers and her tanks, her jets and jeeps when she herself outgrew them.

For a long time, they were all very happy. Oh, certainly, there were bumps in the road. At about the age of ten, she was down to 48 pounds (should have weighed at least 77, the nurses gasped), training herself to exhaustion, and her hands had begun to crack and bleed because she washed them fifty-two times a day ('my palms _sweat_,' she advised her doctor, 'I have to keep them dry, keep them clean, or I _slip_ on the mats! There's nothing _crazy_ about that!'). Her pediatrician suggested that she be allowed to speak to a psychologist, and she was soon diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

It was made manageable by the combination of two drugs: Xanax, for her anxiety, seldom used in children, her psychiatrist confessed, but hers was an _extreme_ case. In reality, the medication wasn't even _recommended_ for use in children, but he had been right, hers certainly was an extreme case… Prozac she was given for her compulsion, combined with what they called behavioral-cognitive therapy, which in reality was something more like pissing Harley off twenty-four hours as a day as _everyone_, even Gregory, got in the way of her daily rituals. The disorder disappeared into the background of her mind, only manifesting itself in neatness that bordered on fanaticism and a constant fastidiousness in her appearance, never a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her clothing.

She became a typical teenager, perhaps a bit moodier than most, but she couldn't have described herself as unhappy. On one particular day, Harley's mother was cranky as well, however, and they got into a terrible fight that sent Harley stomping off to the rec center and refusing to return home until the place closed at 9 PM.

When she got home, the house was dark and quiet, and, having forgiven her mother by then, she went to go find her, to apologize for having yelled at her. She found her mother and baby brother asleep in bed, still wearing clothes underneath the blanket they'd stretched over top of them. Her mother had been so tired lately; she'd probably laid them both down for a nap and had slept right through dinner. She let her mother continue sleeping, but reached to pick up Gregory and fix him something to eat. She was surprised he hadn't woken up already, tummy growling.

The tiny body was stiff and cold and she screamed as she dropped him back onto the bed, scrambling over to shake her mother awake, but she found the same dead, rigid flesh, blue lips and eyelids. She couldn't stop screaming, whimpering, crying, couldn't articulate anything over the phone line to the police, but they said they were sending an ambulance and she sat by the bed with the phone buzzing in her ear and held his tiny body close until things went black around her.

She woke up again on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over her face. A gas leak from the kitchen stove, and there was nothing they could do, her mother and little brother had been dead for _hours_, gone to sleep to never wake up again, and she cried for what seemed like weeks after that. They called her father back from Kuwait, and the doctor's added Survivor's Guilt to her list of syndromes and disorders and another anti-depressant to her list of daily medication.

She never attended another gymnastics meet, couldn't even bear the color blue anymore, the color of the mat's she'd spent years of her life training upon. Her father was never the same again, but he was resolutely there for her from then on, and he never stopped telling her how proud he was the day she entered Basic Training, feeling as though her entire life had led her to this moment.

He'd attended her graduation, she still had the picture of them together hung in her hallway, and she'd seen more smiles from him that day than she had in years, but somehow… she wasn't really shocked the very next day, when she got the phone call. It was Lieutenant Miller, her father's CO, sounding like a bad actor out of a melodrama, so solemn and filled with regret that Harley had to fight the urge to laugh at him. He wanted to meet her somewhere, but Harley couldn't stand to see his face and, risking insubordination, told him to just spit it out. She already knew what he was going to say.

He'd settled all of his affairs, dressed in his best uniform, and then splattered his brains all over the office wall with the same .45 caliber revolver that had been the first gun Harley had ever fired.

Sometimes when she dreams she goes back to that night, the impossible last ditch warmth of a stubborn October evening, the sun still clinging to the horizon and painting _everything_ orange like the jack-o-lantern's she's using as targets. Her father's skin is orange where his bare arms are on top of hers, as are the white patches of her clown suit, even the mask on her head, in between her ever present pigtails, her hair itself, her face: everything orange. His hands steady her own until she adjusts to the recoil, could hold her aim straight with her own strength. Teach me, Daddy, she had said, it's all I need to complete my costume. Michael Myers is supposed to have a butcher knife, he replies sensibly, you have to stab people to death, not shoot them. I can stab them after I shoot them, she shrugged in return, as though that settled it, and it had.

Her father lets go of her hands, sets his own on her shoulders and one, two, three, four, the pumpkins split and tumble off the fence in pieces, and those strong hands she misses so much squeeze her shoulders, but they're just bones now, the wind pulling his flesh away like dust, and she fires rounds into severed heads with red, ragged holes for mouths as the sun explodes, and she wakes up cold, sweaty and shaking, hoarse from screaming.

She didn't recall her mother as often as she did her father these days, but she couldn't stand to miss the both of them so much… better if only one occupied her time, then she could almost imagine that the other was still alive, perhaps they just hadn't talked in a while. She could imagine that all she had to do was pick up the phone and there would be her mother's voice again, and maybe Gregory would snatch it away from her and scream into it 'HEY SISSY!' the way he used to when he was small… and still alive.

Sometimes she thought the ghost of the man he could have been haunted her more than the child.

OOO

When she woke up on Monday morning, the sun was already shining fiercely and she was shocked to find it was 7:30. She scrambled out of bed and into the shower, got dressed, did her makeup and hair on the bus. Despite all her best efforts, it wasn't a minute before 8:30 when she finally stepped off the bus in front of the hospital, and 8:35 by the time she walked through her office door and had the distinct urge to turn around and leave again.

The Captain was already waiting for her, and the look on his face stopped her in her tracks: he was absolutely seething. She had never seen him that angry… then again, she had the idle thought she'd never seen anyone that angry before. Running away wasn't really an option, so she quietly shut the door behind her and looked back to him to begin to apologize. The words never quite got a chance to escape her mouth, however, because suddenly she was very bodily slammed into the wall. The pointed toes of her high heels scrabbled helplessly against the floor; all of her weight was hanging from her throat, or more specifically the hands wrapped around it. She was thankful there was nothing more behind her than a mop closet; otherwise she was sure someone would have heard that thump her head had made against the wall, the one that was still sending showers of sparks before her eyes.

"Jack," she squeaked, but her voice was very tiny and strained; she could barely force the air out of her lungs to make the sound.

"Where have you been, Doctor? You people insist upon constraining my time to a schedule and yet you won't follow it? Tsk, tsk, Harley, I'm beginning to think you don't _value_ our time together."

His hands were clenching around her throat spasmodically, and she was alarmed to see large patches of black growing in her vision, her feet tingling. She tried to keep herself from clawing at his wrists, holding onto them instead, and she heard, almost like it was happening one room over, one of her high heels fall from her dangling, twitching feet, clattering on the tile.

"Jack," she tried again, but it hurt so much just to make the sound, and her lungs were _burning_. "Shades are open… people on the grounds…"

The reminder had the desired effect, and she slid to a boneless heap on the floor as he let her go, gasping in lungful after lungful of air that was bliss after agony, throat still aching terribly. Her eyes flickered up to catch sight of him without turning her head. He was regarding her curiously, and she could imagine why. It probably wouldn't have been the response of any of his other doctors, their first thought being for his welfare.

She rubbed her hand carefully over her throat, the skin feeling hot and chafed from the unyielding pressure of his grip. There were still things clenching and trembling low in her belly, and she tried to soothe herself with the knowledge that feelings of arousal were often an unfortunate side effect of asphyxiation, that was all. Most male hanging victims died with an erection, in fact; it was just a reaction, nothing more.

"You have to learn to control yourself, Captain," she rasped. "You can't let your temper… get the best of you. Standen's waiting for an excuse to put you away. You mustn't give it to him so easily."

She looked up slowly, meeting the eyes that from this angle looked nearly black. She was relieved to find none of the previous, blind rage, only a cold sort of amusement she could only imagine was directed toward her valiant attempt at sounding calm while her heart thundered in the cage of her breast. It wasn't fooling him, but it made Harley feel marginally better to at least pretend she hadn't just been three seconds from pissing herself in terror. She was, after all, a master at the game of denial.

"Well," he said, voice deceptively cheery and loaded with innuendo. "I'll be sure to pull the shades the next time I _have_ you up against the wall."

With that, he reached down and helped her to her feet, though in his estimation that meant taking a handful of her hair and dragging her back upright. She made a strangled sound but managed to keep quiet until she got her feet beneath her again, prompting her scalp to finally stop screaming. He didn't let go of her hair, however, took a tighter grip next to the scalp and dragged her over to the window, snapping the shade shut and turning on her desk lamp in one impossibly fluid motion for how far apart the two objects were. She was back against the wall again, and he jerked her head back so her throat was exposed, skin pulled taut and straining. She was already off balance, one foot bare and the other still heeled, and she stumbled, crazily thankful his grip was keeping her from falling to one side or the other.

"Jack," she whispered again, afraid he'd lost control of himself once more, but the hand that came to her throat next, rubbing and wiping, was surprisingly gentle.

"My, my, what have we been hiding, Dr. Quinzel?" He was close enough that she could feel his breath when he spoke, fluttering along the skin of her throat, and he was using his greater weight and size to keep her back pinned tight to the wall.

She didn't need to wonder what he had managed to uncover, his palm was chalky with the foundation and powder he'd pulled away. She kept her neck relaxed, letting him turn her head from side to side: these sorts of things hurt less if you simply didn't fight them.

"Someone's been putting marks all over that pretty little skin of yours, Harley, are you trying to make me jealous? Of course not, you wouldn't have covered it up, if you were… You just swept it under the rug… Concealing it from Daddy then… what a very naughty girl you're proving to be. Do you want to know what happens to naughty girls?"

She ignored the question, pointedly, just as she was desperately ignoring the feeling of his hips pressing into her stomach.

"My personal life is none of your concern, Captain… now… please… let me go."

He let her go, though with a final tightening of his hand as though to make it clear he wasn't doing it simply because she'd requested it, and took a single step back.

"Since you asked so sweetly." He said, and gave a high-pitched laugh that sent a rush of cold down her spine like ice water. "Now, you've already wasted three-quarters of my session, just _how_ are you going to make this up to me? I get so _cranky_ without my daily… stimulation, Doctor… psychological, if you will, and you're _ever_ so good at giving it to me."

She refused to rise to his baiting and give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm, certainly not when he still maintained such a close physical proximity, and continued to ignore the heat in her face.

"I've already agreed to see if you might go outside, Captain, I'll request time today on my lunch hour, and…we can continue our appointment on the grounds, if that is alright with you."

"Oh, that sounds just wonderful, Harley. It'll do the trick _nicely_, I should think."

OOO

She had no idea where Lieutenant-Colonel Standen had disappeared to, no one had seen him in over a week, and the task of running the hospital had been passed on to Sergeant-Major Nicholson, not the highest ranking officer in the building, but certainly the most trustworthy and the most capable. It was a relief. She had known the Sergeant-Major for several years before they had shared Hines as a post together, and she thought he would be more likely to grant her request than the Colonel would ever be, so she reapplied the makeup to cover the bruises on her throat (some much newer than the others), and made her way to the administration offices between her 10 and 11 o'clock appointments.

The stiff brunette that had been behind the front desk during her first visit to Standen's office was conspicuously absent. She thought it very strange he would have taken his secretary with him, but she simply walked to the inner office door and knocked. She was beckoned inside by a familiar cheerful voice, and was offered a jaunty salute as she entered the room, his green eyes lighting up as he caught sight of her.

"Lieutenant Quinzel! A pleasure as always."

"It's just Doctor Quinzel now, Sergeant Major, if you please."

"Nonsense, Harleen, then it'll be just Jon, now what can I do for you?"

"Well, Just Jon," she said with an ironic quirk of her lips. "I've a favor to ask."

"Anything. Shoot. What's a favor between old friends?"

He was in his late 30s now, had to have been, but his face still shown with the same youthful exuberance that had been the first thing Harley had ever noticed about him. His closely cropped hair was still violently red, and his skin was more freckled than ever from his two recent tours of duty in the Middle East.

"I want to request a temporary pass for one of my patients; just outside the hospital, you understand, not off the grounds."

"Well, I don't see why you even need to ask for a pass then, if you won't be leaving the grounds."

"The pass is for Captain Napier. I've been instructed that he is not to leave the hospital under any circumstances… which is why I need to ask this favor of you."

"Ah," he said slowly, and it was obvious he recognized the name, or perhaps just remembered the stories that had been circulated along with it. "Yeah. He… uh… I've been given a …similar instruction by the Colonel."

She nodded, having been afraid of that. He licked his lips, leaning back in the chair and turning from side to side for a moment, before his forehead wrinkled and he seemed to come to a conclusion, bouncing his torso back out of the plush office chair, leaning forward again to press the button on the Colonel's intercom. She heard its mate on the secretary's desk buzz to life, before the signal transferred to the hospital's central switchboard and the speaker on his desk crackled to life.

"Yes, Sergeant-Major?"

"I need you to get on the radio and summon Captain Knauer up here. I need to talk to him about something… And Maizy?"

"Yes?"

"Tell him to bring the keys to the armory."

OOO

The blonde man was in his early 50's, but there was still a wiry sort of strength that emanated from him, and his slim form somehow made the normally bland brown Security uniform look especially flattering. He had his back turned to her to give her some privacy (he already looked very uncomfortable having to stand in the middle of the Women's locker room), and Harley occupied herself by stealing glances at him as she pulled and tugged at the straps of her vest to tighten it down properly. She didn't want it to be terribly visible underneath her clothing, after all.

He was ex-law enforcement, bred for protection, and those types were normally just a tad more high-strung than their military counterpoints, she had noted, and his posture, accordingly, was more rigid than a West Point recruit during hell week. She cleared her throat as she finished buttoning her blouse over the bullet-proof vest and he turned back to her, shoulder holster already in his hands.

Strange to think a place of healing had access to so many deadly weapons, but in today's age of terrorism she knew there would be few targets more tempting than a hospital filled with thousands of US soldiers. The Security staff was outfitted for just such an occurrence, and no one got in the building without passing through metal detectors these days.

She took the proffered weapon and pulled it from its cloth pocket, letting the magazine fall out of the Glock Model 17. 18 rounds: a full magazine, and, as she pulled back the slide, one already in the chamber.

"Keep it on safety, if you want, but _don't_ unload it. I'm gonna have two of my boys on the roof with Barrett M1A1's watching you, but with the way the wind's blowing today I can't guarantee they're going to be able to keep you out of the line of fire, so if he decides to run, I suggest you be the one to put the bullet in him yourself. Don't shoot to wound, shoot to kill. He'll only give you one good chance at it, anyway. Since you insist on it being just you and him on the ground, Lieutenant, you miss, and no one's going to be able to get down there in time to save you from him, you understand?"

"Yes," she said simply, though she certainly hoped it wouldn't come to that. She slid the magazine back in with a snap and, after a moment's thought, pushed in the safety, and slipped the pistol back into the holster. She slid the straps of the harness over her shoulders, pulling her suit jacket on over that, watching in the mirror as the 9 millimeter disappeared within the heavy folds of material. She heard the click as he pressed the door open and she turned to where he was standing in the doorway, the seriousness in his expression positively deadly.

"And whatever you do, don't let him get his hands on your weapon, or we're all fucked."


	7. Chapter 6: Distraction

"Oh honestly," he groaned. "The display of force is just trite."

He had the slightly regal, slightly annoyed air of a cat, and she could tell it set Knauer's teeth on edge, but the security head made a show of ignoring him, though Harley knew he hadn't taken his eyes off of Jack once since they left her office. No doubt he was trying to read the other man's intention, though Harley herself knew what a fruitless exercise that was. She'd ceased wondering what exactly Jack was up to, though she had the sinking feeling he was definitely up to _something_.

"An unavoidable precaution, I'm afraid, Captain. I had to negotiate to even secure you a pass outside of the hospital. You're lucky I got you this."

He made a humming noise that was somewhere between a purr and a growl, an indescribable noise that didn't even seem human.

"Yes, ah, but I'm surprised they didn't bring out the leg irons, maybe an orange jumpsuit to make me easier to see, HELLO BOYS!" The sudden volume of his voice shook her to the core, and she noticed Knauer tensing imperceptibly as he stopped at the sliding doors, his self-assigned position for their hour outside.

The Captain's voice echoed up between the two flanking walls of the hospital's rear and middle wing. Looking up, she could see a tiny glint of light as one of the scopes seven stories above her caught the sun, probably a little twitch from the guard holding it. She had no idea how he knew they were up there, no doubt they were just as perplexed.

"You're hinting you feel like a prisoner, Captain?" Her heels echoed as well, though nowhere near as loud as his voice. The paved courtyard continued down a small grade, from there to a set of stairs that led to a low, grassy field. The entire thing sloped about half a mile out into the lake the hospital was named for, and on its edges, the very thing that had everyone so worried. Ten square miles of densely forested park. He had not even half a mile, and they would never be able to find him.

"Hinting? Really! I was attempting to apply it with a mallet, Harley-girl, but I haven't any pockets large enough to fit one, so I suppose _hinting_ will have to do."

She rolled her eyes, the tone of the conversation changing almost imperceptibly, but it was not beneath her notice. As tense as she still felt, it was becoming difficult to continue to be wary of him when he sounded like a petulant three-year old.

"I apologize again, Captain."

"Oh, is that what you call it?"

She scoffed in frustration at his consistent interruptions, and he grinned at her. She narrowed her eyes slightly in return. _Get a hold of yourself, Harleen_, she thought, _remember how manipulative he can be. Don't forget why you have to have the pistol._ She couldn't help but eye the treeline as they approached it, closer and closer. Finally, she had to stop, could not in good conscience allow him to edge any farther.

"I apologize again," she repeated. "But they believe you represent a flight risk."

"A fl—oh bless their souls, they're frightened I'll go AWOL." He let out a bark of laughter, but he had been staring at the trees, she'd seen the dart of his eyes. "How _quaint_. It's such a change, you know, no one used to be afraid of old Jack, but look at you now. What _happened_ to you, people? Or maybe the question is, what happened to me?"

He paused for a moment, tongue pressing at the corner of his mouth thoughtfully, and she finally realized what had been niggling at the back of her mind, what she had been unable to focus on when he was passing the time of day by strangling the life out of her: his sutures were gone.

"Your face is healing well." She seized upon the distraction, strolling casually beside him, carefully altering their course away from the forest. He arched an eyebrow as though to show that she _still_ wasn't fooling him, silly girl for even trying, but followed her nonetheless. Her statement was half true, of course, because while the incisions were finally closed of their own accord, the scarring was horrible, there was no denying that.

"As well as can be expected, right Doc?"

"Yes… I'm aware of your attempts at… self-mutilation." She ended her path beneath the only tree that occupied the field, the rest having been cleared away in the name of progress long ago. The first branch was some ten feet in the air, and she watched in astonishment as he half-jumped, half-scrambled up the side of the tree, just getting high enough to catch. It was mainly his arms that did the work, only a single dismissive push of his bare foot against the tree as he hoisted himself up, hooked one leg over the limb, and climbed higher.

"Self-mutilation? Oh no, no, that's all wrong. That's far too _calculated_ a term for what really went on." He peered down at her from the tree and she turned her head as the flashing lights began again, a flutter of activity on the roof as they tried unsuccessfully to get a bead on him. No doubt Knauer was having a coronary inside.

"Then what would you call it, Captain?"

"Call it… my coping mechanism." There was a large, nearly horizontal branch about seventeen feet off the ground, and he stretched himself along it, lounging and looking rather pleased with himself as he glanced out through the foliage. "They're going bat-shit, aren't they?"

She nodded, and he grinned down at her.

"Ah, but I can see all the little diagnoses running through your head, Harley: displays sadomasochistic tendencies, maybe just a touch psychotic, that's always good to spice up the party."

"Is that the way you would describe yourself?"

He shook his head, clucking his tongue. "Oh no, don't turn this around on me, Doctor, we were talking about you. Does it bother you, I wonder, that no matter how much I disgust you, I still intrigue you? That you just keep coming back for more?"

He was far too perceptive, and Harley didn't think she was very comfortable with how this conversation was going. She seized on the only option she had for derailing that train of thought.

"You think I find you disgusting?" she called up to him, questioningly.

He frowned, his eternal smile somehow emphasizing the movement as he lay his head against one folded arm, but he seemed to concede to her diversion.

"You think I don't hear the whispers? How the nurses, the little bitches, how they titter among themselves, and _stare_?"

Her neck was beginning to ache from gazing up at him, so she sank slowly to the ground, wincing a little as various other over-worked parts of her body protested. "I understand how hard it must be for you."

"Do you really?" He snorted derisively.

She sighed, looking down briefly. "No, Jack, if you want to mince words, I suppose I don't really understand how you feel, but I empathize with you, nonetheless."

"They told me I haven't a single drop of empathy in me."

She blinked, looking up again, finally settling on leaning her head back against the trunk to save her neck. "Who?"

"Your colleagues. Sanders, he told me I was a hopeless case, do you know that?"

"Not very professional of him."

"Ah, but honest." He pointed. "I appreciate honesty."

"Well, let me be honest with you. Did I find you shocking at first? Yes, and I admit it was hard not to stare. What has happened to you is horrible, but it's not your fault. The scars don't change who you are inside."

"_You're_ lucky, you know, I have a sense of humor today, otherwise the endless psycho-babble would really start to piss me off." The last three words came through gritted teeth, and Harley knotted her shoulders together, finger itching for the safety of the trigger as the hairs on the back of her neck rose. She had the distinct urge to squeeze her eyes shut again, but knew how dangerous it would be to take them off of him.

"I'm not trying to make you angry, Jack."

The tension was gone from his body just as quickly as it came.

"Oh, you haven't, my sweet girl, I'm just so anxious these days." He gave an exaggerated, melodramatic sigh and she couldn't help but laugh softly, if a bit shakily, though her mind was still whirling, body trembling at the edge of fight or flight. Dealing with the Captain was like being permanently stuck on a carnival ride with no brakes: she had no idea where exactly they were going most of the time, but they were going, and quickly… it was almost fun when it wasn't mind-numbingly terrifying.

"But in all honesty…The scars? They're just ridges of tissue, nothing more. With time, I find that there are moments when they escape my notice entirely. I don't think about them anymore. Regardless, you have a very handsome face, Captain." _There._ That was a _safe_ way to say it.

"Handsome underneath?"

"Handsome even with."

"Do you really think so?"

The words were soft and unsure, like a child seeking approval, but she knew without looking his expression would not match. It didn't. He was watching her with narrowed eyes, a little smile curling his lips and bringing the curved edge of his scar higher, and he reminded her of a cat once more, the intent look a panther had just before it pounced.

She sighed again. She was beginning to feel tired already. "Yes, Captain, I do."

He hummed again, a content sound, and nodded his head, blinking his eyes closed slowly as he did so. "Yes, I think you do, indeed. You know, I don't want you to think I'm all talk, Harley. I might be a little rough," he traced the deep furrow in his left cheek with the back of one fingernail as he said it, tilting his head a little into the motion. "around the edges, but I mean what I tell you. And I might… get a little carried away here and there in the heat of the moment, but what are a few bruises between good friends, I always say, and you do _seem_ the type to say as well."

He winked, brushing his fingers over his throat now, gesturing to the bite marks he'd found bruised into her throat beneath the makeup.

"_I_ value our time together. You can't blame a guy for getting lonely in this place. I've been staring at white cement for months, and then they place this delicious little distraction in front of me, and there's more to you than meets the eye," he tapped his finger on his cheek, almost as though to make sure her eyes were still trained on his. "A guy like me can appreciate that."

That sounded uncomfortably close to being a proposition, and she frantically sought a way to avoid even acknowledging it, but he had a terrible habit of interrupting her thought processes.

She let out a strangled scream as he was suddenly beside her, hitting the ground with far less sound than he should have, dropping into a crouch without a single ounce of jar in his landing. His hand found her face before she had an opportunity to stop him, and she gasped, unprepared for the sudden movement, and certainly unprepared for her stomach dropping like a stone, the feeling as though her insides had liquefied as the rough surface of his palm stroked over the delicate skin of her face.

"Captain," she said desperately, voice high-pitched and still breathless: had meant to place some outrage behind that but all that came was a frightened whisper.

"Push me away."

The instruction brought her out of her sudden stupor, and she did, stopping only after she had done so to marvel at the sudden response: she hadn't even thought about obeying him, she had simply done it. Illogical, dangerous, she hadn't even _thought_ of the gun… she could have been _dead_.

He let the force of her hand push him the rest of the way back, bare feet tucking under his knees, cross-legged, and she had no idea exactly when, where, or why he had left his slippers behind, sometime before his leap into the tree. His voice lowered conspiratorially. "Good. Now, no one will be suspicious. I know we have an audience, Doctor, but I couldn't resist, just a _little touch_, you understand. Soft as I expected it… I wonder how much of you is just that soft?"

She couldn't stop the rush of blood to her face, and she was furious to find herself stumbling over her words when she tried to speak. "Jack… this is… this is inappropriate."

"Shh," he murmured. "Where is the harm in words, Harley, when no one is there to hear them but me? Are you so selfish you'd deny me even your voice?"

She swallowed, mind working furiously. No, it was positively indecent to be indulging in this sort of conversation with her patient, she was at work, she had to remember that, but… when you thought of it like that… And he was… unnerving the _hell_ out of her, the silkiness in his voice unfamiliar, but very effective, and damn him, he knew it.

Some part of her brain largely devoted to surviving sent off warning signals at the energy coiling in his limbs, but his eyes told the real story, lit up from within and filled with anticipation. His tongue slid again, pulling at his bottom lip and then curling back over it so obscenely slow it made her whole body shudder in a way that had little to do with fear, and nothing to do with cold. He smiled, appraising but encouraging, and tilted his head, letting his gaze slide down her body, and she could almost feel it, as real as the hand against her face had been.

There was no one here to see… no one here to stop this. There were men on the roof _watching_ but they had no idea what was going on, what was passing between them, couldn't see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed almost convulsively, and _God_, how could he make her feel like this without even touching her? God, what would happen if he _did_?

He was murmuring once more, even though there was no one around, and she had to lean closer to hear him and he held her in _thrall_ as such unbelievably filthy things fell from his lips, and it was wrong to even listen but she couldn't tune him out, and she could _see_ so vividly as her eyes slid closed, held captive without a single bond. All the things he wanted, all he would do if they were alone and, with a helpless moan and a delicious shudder of humiliation, everything he would do right now with all the world watching.

He laughed, the edge of a growl in the sound, guttural and low when he saw just what was doing the trick, and his words went farther and it was enough to drive her _crazy_.

"That's it, Harley," he whispered, and the haze shattered within her mind, the weekend's events rushing back to her, what she had done, how far she had already taken it, and _what's a bit farther_, a low voice whispered, _just a little touch_. She stared at him, eyes wide, lips slack, but even the smile was gone from his face, and she felt as though she were staring into the eyes of an animal: void of everything but a single, driving determination, and _what if_, her mind urged, _just once_?

She pressed a hand to her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut and trying desperately to clear her thoughts, to gain some sort of control over herself.

"Why do you even try?" He was laughing softly at her, but his eyes were darker than she had ever seen them… and he was _always_ laughing, Harley remembered what he had told her. "Why do you bother to deny it, when I need only look into your eyes to see it… is that what you're trying to hide from me?"

"Please, Captain," she whispered, lifting her hand and pressing it instead to her cheeks, as though she could soothe the patches of high color away.

"Ah… well, maybe I've been just a bit hard on you… I suppose I should give you a bit of time to recover before they begin to wonder why you're breathing _quite_ so hard… Perhaps I make you nervous, Doctor?"

"Damn you," she grated out, and he positively _wailed_ with laughter.

"Oh no, I suppose that might not be the problem this time, but you might not want to tell them, hmm? I'll keep your secret, Harley, and I'll give you one in return. It came in the mail today, but you must come to my room tonight to retrieve it."

Harley blinked, and she was amazed just how quickly the psychiatrist jumped to the forefront of her personality, instantly attentive to his choice of words. "What?"

"Hah! I've got your attention. I thought, since you have far more interest in my past than I do, it would be a most gracious gift. _I'll_ give you something that no one else can." His hands rose, gesturing to himself sparely, only the index raised, the rest lowered harmlessly; but it was a lie, she _knew_ what those hands could do, had been doing all his life, from the very beginning, what it was his _job_ to do.

How could he unhinge her so much? How could she even allow herself to think these things about him?

"You look pained, pumpkin… but don't worry. It only hurts like that the first time." He grinned darkly, and winked. "I should know."


	8. Chapter 7: Pieces

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

Somewhat graphic violence in this part, so I'll warn on principle.

Disclaimer: The Batman Universe characters belong to DC Comics, Captain Knauer belongs to whoever wrote The Longest Yard, and the OC's and the plot belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended, and I make no profit from this.

OOO

He was as good as his word.

He kept the conversation quite civil until time came for them to return inside. If anything, he was better than his word, sharing with her an amusing anecdote involving an Egyptian Asp accidentally loose in the men's locker room. Well, he found it amusing, though Harley imagined the others involved did not find it so. Nonetheless, it was the first information he had given her about his work in WD.

"I suppose, I see the humor in it, as long as no one got hurt."

"Moynihan got _bit_, actually."

"Oh my god."

"Oh, they all thought it was a big deal, as well. But it was just a little bite, and besides, I had made another batch of anti-venom just the day before."

She frowned.

"It sounds as though you had something to do with the… 'accident', Captain."

"Funny, that's what they said, too. Have I told you this story before? Anyway, I thought they just didn't like me." He smirked briefly, before continuing. "It was curious… there was a ventilation shaft just above her tank, oddly enough, it led straight to his locker. How was I to know that, Doctor? A most unfortunate coincidence for Colonel Moynihan and myself."

"What exactly were you doing with an Egyptian Asp in your laboratory?"

"Ah, you see, at the time I was dealing with venoms, toxins…mm… neurotoxins, biological weapons if you will, in my work, and I must say, if you're looking to avoid people there's no quicker way to do that than work in a room with 172 species of venomous snakes and spiders! It was my job to synthesize the venoms, and from there, isolate the various effects, the various characteristics that we wanted, from the rest. I could take out a seizure here, loss of motor function there, and once, I even found a way to make the tiniest wound fatal. Brown recluse venom, highly concentrated, chemical structure altered slightly so we could use it as a coating. It would trigger an advanced state of necrosis almost instantaneously.

"We tried it on bullets, but it had a nasty habit of gumming up the muzzle, and you have to take _care_ of your weapons, you know, so the real practical application came with blades. I only got to use it once myself, oh, but you feel like such a proud parent when you get to see your little darling in action. There was this fellow, I remember he looked quite disheveled, had his uniform untucked. I stabbed him in the kidneys, and he went down just _screaming_, and they usually scream, but he was really just wailing away, like it was the worst thing he'd ever felt, and it attracted a lot of attention, but five minutes later, all I had to do was just touch once and I was staring between his ribs, through to his heart! Everything just… rotted away… _Fascinating_ work, really, completely worth the trouble he brought me."

He gave an ecstatic laugh, eyes darting back to hers as though to share in her enjoyment of the story. Harley tried not to look as nauseous as she felt, but she had no idea whether she had succeeded. His expression didn't let her know either way. For the majority of the soldier's she had met over her life, killing was an unfortunate condition of military service. For the Captain, it might have been the _only_ condition. He _loved_ what he did, and above all, he was _good_ at what he did.

Was there any saving a soul that didn't _want_ the rescue?

"Oh, darling," he crooned, and she could almost imagine for a moment the thing across from her was human. "Don't look at me like that, you make a man feel like a stranger. You're acting as though I've revealed some frightening new truth, but I never hid it. Have no illusions, Harley, this is what I am. Have always been. There was no convenient point in time when the change was made, there is no work to be reversed. The only reason you have been privy to such information as you have, is because you already know your man through and through. I knew, the instant I laid eyes on you… something different, from all the rest…. I looked in your eyes and I saw _myself_. Destined, Harley, you'll find some things just are destined to be. You'll learn, pooh, I'll show you."

OOO

She must have looked discomfited the minute she entered the hospital, she certainly _felt_ pale and frightened. She did not know whether it was the stress of having to guard him, the stress of their encounter, or the horrible notions that sprang with his last statement. It had to be an out and out lie, something he concocted just to get beneath her skin, throw her off balance, send her reeling. Make her unable to defend herself. She could share _nothing_ with this man, this demon that masqueraded in human skin.

And what was happening? Had been happening? He was manipulating her, but she was _choosing_ to respond! He set the trap, but she put her foot into the noose time and time again. She had to get a hold of herself! How could she have ever looked upon him as anything else? He was a killer, a murderer, cold blooded and calculated. All of his titles, his degrees, his achievements, none of that altered the truth. He was a legalized mercenary, a leashed lunatic, a god-damned psychopath with _rank_.

She felt like crying, and must have looked just upset enough in her musings to set off Captain Knauer… though she imagined that was a little like jumping on a log that was already sawn half through.

"What in the fuck was that? You think you're funny, some kind of fucking clown!? Do you think this is a game?"

"Yanno, I've had just about enough of you pushy fucks calling me that."

"Captain!" She screamed, but she had no idea which man she was speaking to. One moment, Knauer had his forearm pressed over Jack's throat, screaming in his face, the next, he was falling face-first into the wall with a sickening crack, and Harley was screaming instead, because the Captain was coming for _her_.

This time she remembered the gun, quickly pulling it from beneath her jacket, leveling it at his head, but somehow he had already seen the movement. Time sped to a blur, his hands were headed for her wrists, she shifted her weight, ducked beneath his grasp, sidestepped, felt the gun spinning in her hands as she reversed the arc of her arms and brought the butt of the pistol down hard into the back of his skull as he crossed beside her. Already over-balanced, the downward blow sent him sprawling onto his hands and knees.

"Ow!" he cried, but the absurd sound was shaking with _laughter_ as rivulets of blood leaked down his face. She'd busted him open, but he sounded as pained and amused as a child with a scraped knee.

Her eyes darted to Knauer, who was shaking his head, unsteadily trying to make it to his feet. He was bleeding as well, from somewhere in his hair-line. It took less than a second to recognize, note these things, but it was a second too long. A solid weight hit her in the knees, lifting and scooping, and she hit the concrete hard enough to force the breath out of her. For the second time today she fought to breathe, and she heard faintly the sound of the Glock skittering along the floor of the hallway as he knocked it from her hand and, all adrenaline, no oxygen, they both scrambled for it.

Her hands nearly closed around it when his hand found her collar, wrenching backward so hard she heard the fabric tear. He slammed her into the floor again, and the world disappeared into flashes of black and white as she felt the back of his hand connect with her jaw and the crushing weight of his knee in her stomach.

She fell in and out of an oppressive darkness, flashes of movement, the sound of heavy breathing, a click as he hit the safety. She couldn't get her eyes to focus, she could hear the thud of her heart in her ears and she did not know whether she was truly seeing this as she watched the Captain again kneeling over a prone body. Reality reasserted itself, this wasn't a nightmare, as he did not bow his head. Knauer had been unable to make his feet, and the Captain now had him pinned, and she watched in muted horror as he pressed the barrel directly between his eyes.

"I'll say this just once, if you _ever_ lay another hand on me, I'll pull the eyes out of your fucking head, and I'll feed them to you, do you understand me?"

He was waiting for an answer, and finally Harley heard a low, "Yes."

There was a series of loud clatters as the gun fell to pieces: he'd dismantled it with little more than a flick of his wrist, and then sent the pieces skidding down the hallway, raising himself out of the kneel smoothly, shortly after that. Her screams had attracted attention, and the orderlies' (who knew how long _they_ had been there) balls had apparently _finally_ dropped, because they sprang into action, securing with zip-ties the hands of the man who was now standing, harmless as a lamb, between them. Harley carefully wiped at the thin line of blood and spittle that had leaked from the corner of her mouth. There was a molar that wiggled when she pressed her tongue into it.

The whole encounter had taken less than three minutes.

"Take him to his room. Lock him in." she croaked, hoarse from shouting, her stomach aching, and they quickly complied. He held her gaze until they finally dragged him around the corner.

Fifteen minutes later, she found herself back in the women's locker room with who she was quickly beginning to find was the third most infuriating man in the hospital, after perhaps Standen, and definitely Jack.

"I'm fine," he growled.

"You're bleeding all over the place!"

"The head always bleeds a lot!"

"Regardless, I think you need stitches, and beyond that, there could be a concussion, even a fracture."

"I've had worse."

She rolled her eyes in disgust at the typical male posturing.

"Oh no, this isn't that bad, it's when your brain starts swelling uncontrollably and starts crushing itself against the inside of your skull, that's when we'll see how _tough_ you really are, Captain."

He made a disgusted sound himself, but seemed to submit to her ministrations. The split in his scalp was some two inches long, but she had a hard time telling with the blood matting hair over it. She grabbed a square of gauze and poured a bit of the peroxide on it, dabbing gingerly at the gash, then wiping a bit, pulling the hair out of the wound. He hissed indignantly, and she snorted.

"You big baby. I bet your wife hates to see you coming with any injuries."

The silence between them seemed very awkward for a moment before he finally spoke.

"I'm not married."

"But you have a…" she pointed to his left hand, but she could already see from this close that what she had mistaken for a wedding band was actually a tattoo. "Oh," she finished lamely, and he followed her gaze, flexing his hand almost self-consciously.

"I was once… she died about six years ago."

"I'm sorry… I wasn't going to ask."

"But you were wondering," he said simply. She frowned softly, and turned her attention again to his scalp. Her attentions had removed the early clotting, and the flow began anew as she pulled the last of the blonde strands away from the exposed tissue. She quickly grabbed a square of gauze and pressed it to his head, grabbing his hand and laying it over it.

"If you're not going to get stitches, at least let me put some glue on it."

He scoffed.

"You people kill me with that shit… Guy comes in all ripped up, and you glue him back together."

"Or sew," she continued, "or clamp, or pin, sometimes even staple them back together."

"Funny how you inflict further damage in the name of healing."

Harley cast him an amused glance, pulling several butterfly tapes from the interior of the first aid kit.

"All doctors and nurses are sadists to a degree, Captain Knauer. In the name of help or healing it may be, but it takes a special person to hold a scalpel and slice through layers of skin and muscle, or to puncture the skin with a needle, and not necessarily a normal one."

"You know, that doesn't make me feel so easy, working around here," he drawled flatly, and she laughed.

"It's just a word. You become immune to it, to a point; human pain and suffering no longer bother you that much. They might not enjoy inflicting pain, but they do inflict it, and without a second's hesitation. Their job is to save lives…. Often, regardless of the quality of life they're saving."

"Does it bother you anymore?" She made a considering sound, pulling back the gauze to see how much they had managed to stem the flow. He lowered his hand to join the other upon his thighs, held stiffly just above the knee.

"I try not to let it bother me. Did it bother you to shoot a criminal when you were a policeman?" She arched an eyebrow.

"It never stopped bothering me. I'll never forget a single man I killed, not their names and not their faces. The instant I stop thinking of them as human, I'm no better than they were." She nodded, and she thought of how the Captain also remembered. Now she knew it was for a very different reason. She uncapped the tube of liquid suture, and finally noted he had looked surprised upon her asking.

"Nurses gossip, Captain, and you'd be terrified to learn how resourceful some of them are at discovering things that were previously unknown."

"You saying you've heard a lot about me?"

"I'm saying I've heard a lot about just about everyone who lives or works within these walls. I've not heard your life story, mind you, but some people like to learn the basic information about their co-workers."

"Buncha damn busybodies," he muttered, and she had to laugh at him again, gingerly filling the furrow in his scalp with the medical adhesive, carefully pressing it together as she used her hands to keep his hair parted and away from the glue. She blew softly on it to speed the drying, and he grimaced noticeably.

"Sorry," she offered quietly, and a few soft breaths later the glue began to solidify, closing over the wound and holding it together like an artificial patch of skin. She carefully placed a few tiny butterfly tapes in case the glue didn't hold, and stepped away after a final glance at her handiwork. It was a passable attempt.

"You might wanna wash your face. You look like an extra from a slasher flick."

She sank slowly onto the bench he had previously occupied as he stood and walked over to the sink, peering into the mirror. There was a nasty swollen spot beneath the gash, and already the bruise was creeping down onto his forehead.

"Captain Knauer," she began.

"My name's Wilhelm," he interrupted as he wiped at his face with a damp paper towel.

"Wilhelm," she tried again, "It'd… be in my best interest if… the Colonel didn't hear about this."

"You want me to keep my mouth shut."

She sighed. "I didn't quite mean that."

"But it's what it boils down to, when you take away the pleasantries."

"If it were discovered he attacked a member of the staff…. I could lose my job over this."

"You're not the only one," he replied simply, and the rest of the conversation hung between them, unstated but understood.

"So what about you? This guy oughta be locked up, but you're still gonna have to see him every week?"

"Four times a week," she corrected, tiredly.

"Jesus, like that makes it any better. It's dangerous, is the point." He surprised her with his vehemence.

"So is being a soldier, a policeman, a security guard. I could be hit by a car while crossing the street tomorrow. _Life_ is dangerous."

"That's no reason to throw yourself in the snake pit." He glared at her, and she shook her head wearily.

"At this point, I haven't a choice."

"He doesn't have any power over you, Harleen." She was startled by the use of her name, momentarily shocked silent. The Sergeant-Major had not introduced them by name… she had not given him hers.

"It's not Captain Napier who holds the threat over me… Wilhelm," she said after a long moment.

"The Colonel?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," she nodded, and gave him a weak smile. "You put the pieces together easily."

"Always was good at puzzles," he said with a shrug.

OOO

There wasn't a single part of her that wasn't aching somehow. Some of that was her fault, but some of it not… then again, maybe all of it was. It was getting difficult to tell, these days.

The day went on with the slow dragging of minutes and the quick ticking of the second hand as patient after patient streamed through her door. She tried to give them all her full attention, but she was so _tired_, and by the time 5 o'clock came she felt like a zombie. She stared at the clock for a very long time, watching the minute hand move from 12 to 1, 1 to 2.

_You'll have to come to my room tonight to retrieve it._

Did she dare? The minute hand made it to 3, and she knew she couldn't wait any longer or she'd miss her bus. It would take an hour for the next one to come through. She sighed, shoving her glasses onto her head and scrubbing at her face, a tic that was rapidly becoming ever-present the longer she had to deal with the Captain. She gathered her things, briefcase and purse, and headed out of her office, after a moment's thought locking the door behind her. It took 5 minutes to make it to his room, _ten minutes to go_, she thought. There was an unfamiliar guard stationed at his door.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, Captain Knauer said I'm not to let anybody through."

"I'm sure he didn't mean me, this man is my patient."

"He said _especially_ you, Doctor."

"I have… something… I have to pick up from him."

"The box?"

"What?" she blinked at him, utterly clueless.

"He said the same thing, weird fuck, that he had something for you. I said I'd leave it for you, and he said he 'supposed' that would have to do. What a freak, man…"

_You have no idea_, Harley thought with little humor, but, "Where is it?" was what she said.

"I put it in the nurse's station. Janine has it."

"Thank you," she peered at his nametag briefly. "David."

"Yeah, sure," he shrugged.

She turned a corner, walked past many closed and open doors, turned again, and finally ended at her destination. She knew the nurse behind the desk, Janine, she had a chubby face that was infinitely happy, and Harley envied her that inner peace at this moment.

"Janine… the… security guard, David, he said there was a… box… here for me?"

"Oh yeah," she said brightly, bending in her chair and pulling something out from under the desk. It was a FedEx box, heavy, Harley noted, about twenty-five pounds, she would guess. She took it carefully, almost opened it, but thought better of it. She had no idea what it contained. With Jack, the possibilities were endless, and many of them were bad.

"Thank you, Janine," she said quietly, and walked off, unwilling to be trapped in conversation by the gabby brunette.

The box weighed heavily on her lap the entire length of the bus ride home. It weighed even heavier on her mind as she set it in the entryway by the front door, and tried to forget that it was there.


	9. Interlude 2: Avoidance

Her alarm clock rings at 5:30, and she stumbles blearily into the half-light of her apartment. She has slept for ten straight hours, and now her body feels slow, like even the blood is sluggish in her veins. She dresses with her eyes closed and, clutching a bottle of Gatorade, steps out into the chill morning air. At 5:45, her feet and legs protest, but she forces herself into a run, clumsy heavy limbs finally loosening, coming to life. She feels the breath steady in her lungs, the beating of her heart, ecstatic and swift, and she runs until black edges her vision, and she must finally stop, chest heaving, pulse roaring in her ears. The gray cast finally begins to lift from the world, and for the first time in days, she begins to feel like herself.

It's 6:30 by the time she climbs the final stair, and 6:45 when she finishes her toilette, stepping from the bathroom. She brews a pot of coffee, this takes six minutes, makes oatmeal (three and a half minutes), a protein shake (one minute) and eats an apple. She does not notice the box by the door, it doesn't even register as she leaves the kitchen. Her eyes studiously avoid it as she walks to her bedroom.

It is 7:01 when she begins dressing, and 7:30 when she finishes her makeup. She watches 15 minutes of a breakfast show she's never seen before, and reaches the bus stop at 8 o'clock, the hospital at 8:45, her office by 8:50.

She has skipped the Captain's appointment entirely.

By 11:45, the fluorescent lights of her office have dragged a terrible headache into a full-fledged migraine, and she retreats outside, hoping the warmth of the sun and the darkness of her sunglasses will bring her some relief. She walks to the base of the rear courtyard, spreads her lunch over the stones, and tries to relax in the shade of stairwell. By 12:15, she is sleeping soundly, by 12:30 she wakes with a violent, flailing start.

"Woah! I didn't mean to scare you."

The world is twisted, and it takes her a moment to realize it's because her glasses are askew. She coughs and straightens them quickly, patting her hair down.

"You don't have to look so god-damn smug about it," she grits out finally, and Knauer laughs, sending a fresh wave of rage through her.

"You.. uh…" he gestures to the right corner of his mouth, "got something there."

She wipes quickly at her mouth with the back of her hand, wincing a little as it brushes the bruise on her jaw, and finds a string of drool with a growl of annoyance.

He snickers, and she gives him a look that could eat through metal.

"I would have left you there, but you're getting a little crispy on one side." She snorted and rubbed at her cheeks, but they did feel warm…

"You didn't bruise any," he's saying quietly. "I figured you would. You took a wallop."

"Oh, I did bruise," she said testily. "I bruise easily in fact; thick, thick makeup… Can't say the same for you, though."

"Yeah," he laughed, brushing the edges of the bruise gingerly with his fingertips. "It's not doing much for my reputation around here. Ryans told everyone I got into a damn bar fight…"

Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore, and patted the stone step beside her. "Sit down, you're making me nervous…" He complied with a shrug, and she continued. "Not doing anything for your reputation, huh? You afraid someone might stop thinking of you as such a tight-ass?"

"A tight-ass?" he asked, surprised.

She smirked. "Too harsh?"

"One of the nicer terms I've heard employed actually." He grinned again, and she couldn't help but smile in return this time.

"So, I heard you came in late this morning."

She stopped, staring at him indignantly. "What are you checking my time cards now?"

"No, but when a 6'5, 290 pound intern is reduced to tears by a man he could _bench press_, well, word gets around."

She sighed, pushing her glasses up and squeezing the bridge of her nose.

"I surmise this has something to do with the Captain."

"You'd 'surmise' correctly. He wasn't all that pleased when he found your office empty and locked this morning."

"He told me that he values our 'time together'. That's what he calls our sessions. It's the only power I have over him."

"I'm not sure that's the right way to go about this: take away his toys because he's been bad. He's not a child."

"He is a child," she snapped. "He has a highly developed brain, he has an IQ higher than Einstein for Chrissakes, but he's got the social skills of a three year old. That's mine, I want, now. There's not a single thought behind one of his actions, no consideration given for the trouble he causes, the feelings he evokes, the people he hurts. Everything is about him and his own immediate gratification. The human mind is programmed to deal with rage. When someone cuts you off, and steals your parking spot, you might get angry, maybe even angry enough to want throw a punch, but you don't do it. You restrain yourself, because you think of the consequences. That part of his mind doesn't exist. Within his perception of reality, his actions _have_ no consequences. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and to whomever he wants."

"So you're saying what we have on our hands here is a psychotic three year old who's a dead shot and can build a bomb out of a cell phone and a couple of bottles of cleaning supplies?"

She snorted. "You sound as though you're familiar with him."

"Him? No, not him, but I'm familiar with his type. He's too smart, he thinks the rules don't apply to him anymore."

"No, I don't think that's it." She shook her head. "I think at this point, we're all playing by a set of rules that are his, and his alone. My only hope is I can figure out what his game is before it's too late..."

OO

She does not see the Captain the next day, or the day after. After the incident with the intern, they send him back to his room, keeping him there almost constantly. They escort him to the cafeteria for breakfast, and do not allow him out again until lunch time, when Harley had the most unfortunate opportunity to run into the _very_ man she'd been avoiding for three long days.

"Now, I'm really beginning to think you don't like me."

It was amazing how a man with so recognizable a face could so easily blend into the crowd. She could have walked past him without a second thought.

"Captain," she said stiffly.

"I have to apologize. That's what you want, isn't it? For me to say I'm sorry? Well, I'll say it, and if you sit down, I might even mean it."

Her teeth gritted together just slightly: she had no patience for his games today.

"I'll stand, thank you."

"Suit yourself. I was only being courteous. Now, I suppose this whole little tiff of ours is about the scuffle we had the other day. There's no reason to get so angry about it, it was just a little argument, a love tap if you will…"

"You almost broke my jaw, Captain. I'd hardly call that a 'little' argument."

He pursed his lips into a little pout. "Well, I told you, I do get a little carried away in the heat of the moment. Haven't you been listening, Harley?"

"Oh, I have been, and it never ceases to sadden me, the cycle of abuse. You watched your father do it to your mother, and now you're going to continue in his path of behavior?"

"I'm _nothing_ like my father," he hissed, and she refused to let herself feel even the slightest fear, held his gaze with narrowed eyes.

"You're a coward, is what you are, just like him. You have no control over your own life, so you have to take your frustrations out on a woman. Does it make you feel stronger because you can bat me around like a doll?"

He turned his head slowly to the side, and she could see the muscles clenching in his jaw, beneath the scars. His neck gave a series of pops.

"I know… you ladies like to say nasty things when you're angry, you like to get under our skin, but I don't think you're gonna like what you find under there, my dear."

"You'll address me as Doctor Quinzel, from now on, Captain. I think we're done for today."

She had no idea how he managed to move so quickly, but his hand was very suddenly wrapped around her wrist, and she turned her eyes back on him angrily.

"Don't you walk away from me. We're not finished here, not until I say. Do you think you can just turn your head and ignore me? That I'm just going to disappear into the shadows like a bad dream? You _owe_ me time, Doctor."

"Let go of me," she snarled, and he bared his teeth in return like a dog, though he complied, dropping her hand as though he couldn't stand to touch it.

"You'll see me on Monday, Captain. There will be no more trips outside, there will be, in fact, no deviations from your suggested course of therapy. If you so much as roll your eyes at me, I'll see to it that they give you so many drugs you'll drown in your own saliva, do you hear _me_?"

He did not reply, but his hands were knotting together, and she had the distinct feeling that if they were not surrounded by people at the moment, she'd be laying in pieces on the floor.

She held his murderous gaze for a moment longer, before turning on her heel and stalking off.

She managed to make it to her office before she collapsed into tears.


	10. Chapter 8: First Chronicles

For one and a half days she nursed her depression, indulged and allowed herself to feel hopeless, useless, despairing, and she wept helplessly. She turned out the lights, pulled all the shades, and retreated into a cocoon of goosedown, Ben and Jerry's, and MSNBC. She flipped back and forth between the news channels, almost compulsively. She had no real idea of what she was looking for.

By Sunday morning, Pam had had enough.

At 7:15 am, Harleen Francis Quinzel found herself laying on the carpet of her bedroom floor, still wrapped helplessly in her bedcovers, a rare species of angry redhead snarling her in the face.

"You haven't answered your phone in days, your hair stinks, this place is a _wreck_, so you're gonna drag your sorry ass out of bed, take a shower, and you're gonna have breakfast with me."

Harley blinked for a few long seconds.

"I love you, too, Red,"

"Get up," was all she snapped in return, and stomped out of the room.

Once Harley actually managed to locate the direction in which her feet and legs occupied, she extricated herself from the knot of cotton, and stumbled into the bathroom.

Upon returning, admittedly she felt a little closer to human and, as she approached the kitchen, so did her stomach.

"Is that sausage?" she asked hopefully.

"Veggie sausage," Pam replied, flipping a fried egg.

"I should have known," she replied despairingly. "How can you love plants so much when you eat them at every meal? Isn't that like murder?"

She shrugged. "I'm like a black widow. I love you," she cooed to one of the lovely organic cherry tomatoes she had brought with her, before popping the whole thing in her mouth, jaws closing with a snap. "…aand now you're dead."

"That explains to me why you're still single."

She swallowed. "I thought it was just because guys are afraid of me?"

"Why do you think they're scared!?"

She threw the nearest object she could locate at her best friend, but as that first object was a dishtowel, it flew sluggishly through the air and flopped lamely to the ground, a few feet short.

Pam nodded, after a second, staring at the towel, before arching a thin eyebrow. "Now I see why you got your ass kicked. Speaking of, who's the newest name on my list of people to maim and kill when I finally take over the world?"

"I didn't get my ass kicked!" Harley growled. "It's perfectly respectable to lose the fight when the other guy is a hell of a lot stronger than you are!"

Pam stopped dead. "A _guy_ hit you?"

"Yes, and he damn near broke my jaw, but if it makes you feel any better I cracked his head open… Made me feel a little bit better, up until he started laughing about it, and up until he hit me, cause that wasn't funny at all."

"Cracked his head open with what?" Her face was twisted in confusion.

"The butt of a handgun."

The redhead scoffed, removed the sausages from their pan, and threw down the spatula in frustration.

"Alright, I am just completely lost here. _Who_ hit you, and why were you carrying a handgun?" So Harley explained, and it was a long story… She was horrified by that fact, considering the events in question had actually only taken about two and a half hours when she put them all together that way.

"I'm gonna kill him."

"Well, that's not going to help me. I can't analyze a corpse."

"So you're just going to keep seeing him?"

"What choice do I have, Pam? If I were really so scared about being attacked by a patient, I would have picked a different field. I specialize in treating mental illness in _veterans_, uncontrollable anger and an inability to resist violent urges is pretty much par for the course. They warn you about that in _class_. They've been trained to kill, but no one tells them how to turn it off. And... no one was permanently hurt. Flesh wounds all around, I mean, but no real damage. I've thought this over, and sometimes you have to take a step back in treatment to take a step forward. Perhaps this event will have a positive effect on his behavior, like… lancing a boil."

"So you're saying since he blew his top, maybe he'll be calmer from now on?" She looked skeptical, and Harley shrugged weakly. "I think you're trying a little too hard to be optimistic about this, Harley."

"Maybe," she sighed, after a long, reluctant pause. "I don't want to be. I just want so badly to save him, Pam. Everyone deserves a second chance."

"_You_ never did anything wrong, Harls, you're still on your first chance." Pam said quietly, and gave her friend a feeble, sympathetic smile: the blonde looked small, and hurt. "And _he's_ not your Dad, Harley. Sometimes people are just beyond saving."

"No, no," Harley was saying quickly, shaking her head as though she could erase the words from her ears with the motion. "I refuse to believe that. I've never met a man who _deserved_ a chance at a normal life more than the Captain. After all he's been through, I can't abandon him now. I can't just let this go how it may, not when I can help."

"You know the biggest danger in trying to save a drowning man, Harley?"

"What?"

"They can't bear to let _you_ go, either. And sometimes, they drag you down with them."

She winced as though from a physical blow.

"What I'm saying is this wasn't Hostel: The Middle Eastern Edition, okay, they didn't just pick him at random and decide to hack him up. Those were _interrogation_ techniques that I saw in those photos. That guy was dealing with some heavy shit in his everyday work. You know what that means to me? To me, that says there's more going on here than you're thinking about. He _knows_ something, something he's not told you, and whatever it is, it's important enough that somebody was willing to kill him and ten other people to get to it. They left him for dead, but he didn't _die_, Harley. Where's your guarantee somebody isn't gonna show up to finish the job?"

It was Harley's turn to scoff. "Do you honestly think someone would try to kill him in a military hospital? They'd never even make it into the building with a gun, or a knife."

"There are plenty of ways to kill people without metal. My point is you've got no idea what the big picture is, okay, you're focused very narrowly, all on him. You need to start thinking about yourself, and whether you're really safe knowing all his secrets."

"If I'm not going to run when _he_ threatens me, what makes you think I'm going to run when someone threatens _him_?"

Pam growled. "You don't get it. This isn't about courage, or honor, or whatever the hell it is you're concerned with, there are some thing's you just don't get involved in, because they end up getting you _killed_. It could be dangerous to even be associated with this guy, never mind the fact that he himself is dangerous. And you're still _mooning_ over him!"

"I am not!" she snapped. "This is a completely legitimate concern for my patient that I'm displaying. It's my _job_ to help him."

"Why can't you pass the job on to someone else?"

"There _is_ no one else. He's been through five doctors, four men and one woman who all together have more credentials than I can even name, and _I'm_ the only one he has responded to. Four months ago I was still an intern, Pam! They threw me onto this case expecting me to fail. What if I could prove them wrong?"

The redhead practically flailed, giving a little shout in anger. "Did you hear me? Were you even listening? I just said this isn't about that! You are in total _denial_, Harley, you are in _danger_, and you are skipping along obliviously! You're staring at everything else except for the fucking knife coming at your gut, okay, you need to _pay attention_."

A pause. "Are you going to hyperventilate?"

The redhead eyed her angrily, hands curling into delicate fists. "You know, sometimes I just want grab you by your hair, and _pound_ your head into the floor."

"You've got problems." Harley said, grinning, already balancing on her tiptoes. "Have you ever considered seeing a therapist?"

Pamela tackled her.

Five minutes later, as she was beginning to fail in her effort to prevent Pam from strangling her (mainly because she already couldn't _breathe_ from laughing so hard) the smoke alarm began squealing.

"The eggs!"

The eggs were inedible ("That's fascinating," Harley murmured, transfixed. "Even _I've_ never burnt an egg that bad…. Ow! You're so abusive.") and most of the other food had by now gone cold.

"Good one, Red."

"Shut up. Put it in the microwave."

"Testy, testy."

"You drive me _crazy_."

"Short drive." She sing-songed.

"And what in the _hell_? You almost made me forget about it. You said he gave you that box like a week ago and you haven't opened it?"

Harley shrugged, picking between her warm food and a bowl of fruit salad. "These waffles are really good, Pam."

"Consider yourself lucky, I usually have a salad for breakfast."

"You're a freak." Harley shook her head, amazed.

"And you're avoiding the question."

"I'm almost afraid to look inside."

Pam was already standing. "Well, it's not gonna eat you, and I don't hear it ticking."

Harley snorted. "Very funny."

"I wasn't _joking_. I bet you didn't even listen to it."

She made a sound of frustration as the redhead disappeared briefly into the hallway.

"You're paranoid, Pamela!" She called after her. She returned half a second later with the white box in question.

"It's fairly heavy."

"Yeah," Harley muttered, watching almost in pain as the redhead grabbed a clean knife and slit the tape holding the box shut. Upon opening it, she pulled out an envelope and immediately slit it open with the same knife, and pulled out the letter inside.

"You are so nosy!" Harley squeaked.

"He gave you the box, Harley, he wanted you to look at it." The redhead rolled her eyes. "Captain… blah blah blah… god this guy is boring… here it is… Contained herein are the personal effects that were found in your headquarters. My best wishes for your recovery, blah blah… This is everything he had in his room in Iraq, basically."

"They're not really rooms, more like bunkhouses, tents sometimes." Harley said, distractedly, finally plucking up the nerve to stand and look at exactly what the box contained.

"CD's," Pam said. She herself pulled out several magazines. "It's just miscellaneous stuff… that's it?"

"The box is heavy. It's not twenty pounds of junk, keep looking." She set aside notebooks and folders, paperbacks, a bag of toiletries, and even a snow globe.

"What's that?"

She gave it a shake, peering within it. "It's old. They used to dress Wayne Tower like this every year for Christmas, with these huge garlands, and bows, and lights… They haven't done it in years though, not since Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered." Pam had stopped rummaging through the box, and was staring at her instead. Harley shrugged. "I did some research on the city… to better understand what kind of environment he came from."

She shrugged, too, and brought out another sheaf of what looked like old paper work, bound into a stack with twine. It seemed now there were only four objects left in the bottom of the box.

Pamela lifted one out, rubbing her hand across the patchwork leather cover.

"This was handmade." She said, glancing up to Harley before opening it. A familiar face stared back at her, but much smaller, infinitely younger and caught in a stunning, ear to ear grin, displaying the fact he was missing both front teeth. His hair fell onto his forehead, as pale and delicate as candy floss, and there was a livid, stitched-shut gash, almost y-shaped, on his lower lip.

Still, it was hard to believe he had once looked so innocent. There was an inscription below the picture, in a neat, feminine script which said "Jack, Age 4. The World's Most Beautiful Smile."

"Since you have far more interest in my past than I do… that's what he said." She blinked, looking back to her best friend's face, heart suddenly pounding with excitement. "These are his photo albums, Pam." Each hand-bound book was nearly six inches thick. Harley was utterly stunned by what those pages would contain.

His most gracious gift. He had given her his _life_.


	11. Chapter 9: Lamentations

He was an obvious ham in his earliest years, always smiling for the camera and pulling a pose. The home in the background of the photos is very bare, but very clean. The couch and easy chair are second hand. In the earliest photos, she can see threadbare patches in the fabric: later, those spots are artfully disguised with patches and doilies. They are poor, but prideful. The apartment is treated as though it contains thousands of dollars in antiques, not pieces of furniture pulled off the sidewalk from parts of the city not yet feeling the worst of the Depression.

His presents at Christmas are few, but beautifully wrapped, and his room is a series of scientific divisions, everything in its proper place. There are few pictures of them together, Harley can only assume it is because his mother is more often behind the camera, but he clings tightly to her in every one: her mirror image in miniature. It is obvious that he is the baby boy, the favored and only child. The album is much like his recollections in the fact that his father is rarely featured. She finds a few photos of a tall, slender man with dark hair and blue eyes, caught at the edges of the frames, but by the time his age is listed as five, his Father is gone entirely.

Now, he has begun school: there are pictures of him climbing on and off the ubiquitous yellow bus with the words 'Gotham City Public Schools' painted across the side in neat, block letters. He looks frustrated initially, but soon there are pictures of him holding up multiplication tables, his tiny cherub's lips pursed in the middle of his recitation. They have given in, allowed him to progress to more advanced work, and he looks calmer, happier for it. She sees what looks like a shelter in a few photos, and then a new apartment, smaller and shabbier than the first.

He grows older, and he does not like the camera so much now: he pulls faces, instead of poses, but his Mother has kept those photos anyway. He's a very happy child, and Harley only needs a single photo to know that his mother thinks the world of him. Instead, there are hundreds.

Harley watches him grow over the years, begins to recognize the wicked gleam in the eyes, the familiar turn of his smirking lips. A new man, unlike his father, is featured prominently in the pictures after the age of 7, along with a black and tan dog that is nearly larger than the skinny child himself.

"Rufus," Harley says, pointing. "His mother remarried and the man had a dog… a Rottweiler named Rufus."

In the years that follow, the dog is his constant companion, present in every photo. By the time he is 9, there is a block of photos of Rufus performing a long series of tricks, Jack leading him through.

"Smart dog," Pam marvels.

"Talented trainer," Harley corrects. "He's a natural. Rottweiler's are very independent, very perceptive of humans. They're often very picky about whom they'll listen to, and this dog had a different owner for years, but just look what he's done! He took right up with him, that's very unusual for the breed."

"You're drooling all over the picture, Harleen."

"Shut up!" she snapped, and shut the book "I can't admire greatness when I see it?"

The second album they open is even earlier, Jack's baby book.

"My god, look how young she was."

"Lucy," Harley supplied. "Was his mother's name… she would have been 16 in that photo… He told me the math. His father would have been 21 at the time of his birth."

"Daddy was robbing the cradle, and the Baby had a baby."

"Well, he wasn't a very moral man. His father was an abusive alcoholic."

"He kind of just disappeared." She gestured at the album they had set aside.

"He died when the Captain was five. It was just him and his mother until she remarried two years later."

"I bet he was glad of it."

Harley laughed, and felt terrible immediately afterward, wincing, resisting the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. "He killed his father, Pam. He was drunk, and trying to strangle his mother, so he stabbed him to death with his mother's switchblade."

The redhead stared at her, unable to believe the bark of laughter that had just escaped her friend's lips. Finally, she shook her head. "Jesus Christ, Harley, this guy's been screwed up from the beginning!"

"He's a borderline psychopath," Harley admitted.

"Borderline!?" Pam shouted.

"Yes. He doesn't feel fear like we do, no concern for himself or others, and he feels no regret, no guilt over his actions, but his pathology is not advanced. He is, for instance, not incapable of forming a meaningful relationship with another being. He's not incapable of feeling… _something_ like love. I'm not certain it's entirely like what we feel as love. That's as far as the emotion extends, however. He seems to consider human life as generally being of little consequence, little worth. He was able to kill indiscriminately as a soldier, and he's made no effort to hide his enjoyment of it from me. He's extremely possessive of those he… cares for, but no one else might even exist to him, not until they cross him. Then he kills with very little provocation, and certainly no hesitation."

"How can you just sit there and read that off like it's a laundry list? He's _crazy_, Harley, Grade A American Psycho, how are you not _entirely_ terrified by him? They have names for people like him, Harley, they call them serial killers. And talk about enabling somebody! This guy is two steps from starring in Being Ted Bundy, the only difference is he's already getting _paid_ for it."

"Because he's _sick_, Pam, he needs my help. They should have sent him into therapy; instead they sent him out into battle with a fully-automatic and said 'Here. Have fun! Just don't shoot any of us!' And I… really don't think he would hurt me, Pammy."

"What, do you think he _cares_ for you?" Her tone was derisive.

Harley's face twisted in a grimace. "I don't suppose I would take it to that extreme, but… he has an interest in me, yes. I don't think it's entirely physical. For a man his age, he demonstrates an abnormally low libido. The machines recorded very little physical response during his sexuality questionnaire. Were it not for… certain incidents… I wouldn't hesitate to call him largely asexual."

"Certain incidents?" Pam questioned, but she was already shaking her head disdainfully.

"A certain conversation," Harley tried, voice high-pitched and weak. Pam glared harder, unsatisfied. "Does it count as phone sex when there's no phone involved?"

"HARLEEN!"

"I know!" she screamed back. "There's… there's no saying _no_ to him, though, not when he sets his mind to something! He's like a damned pit bull!"

"This just keeps sounding worse and worse, Harley. This guy is really smart, yeah, but he's playing _you_ like a fiddle. You think you can use his interest in you to gain power over him, but I think he's already used it on you!"

"No, he hasn't. I'm _prepared_ for that eventuality; I've heard from his former doctors just how manipulative he can be."

"Then open your eyes! He's already got you backed into the corner, Harley, how do you know he's not going to try and blackmail you or something?"

"You really are paranoid, you know that? And besides… he just doesn't seem the type. Now you might be right, he might be scheming, but I don't imagine it's so different from what any other man his age is plotting."

"You think he's just trying to get in your pants!? I think it's a hell of a lot different. Why you, Harley, why did he talk to you and none of the others? Maybe it's because you're _different_."

Harley froze at the word.

"Maybe it's because you're a lot more _vulnerable_ than they were. Let's face facts, Harls, I know you're a sucker for a sweet smile and a hard-luck story… and if he's such a genius, how do you know he didn't have you pegged for a rube the minute he walked in your door?"

Harley looked crushed. Pam sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "God, Harley, please, you've gotta see what's going on here. Do you know what counter-transference means?"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child, Pamela." She growled. "Of course, I know what it means. That's _not_ what's going on here."

"Then wake up! There's more going on here than you'll admit, Harley. I see the look in your eye. You used to look like that when you talked about Chad. You're falling in _love_ with him, Harley."

"No, I'm not," she said, just a little too quickly, and slammed the book shut, grabbing for another one almost desperately.

"Harl—"

"That's the _end_ of the conversation, Pamela. I won't even honor it with my attention. It's absurd. I'm… I'm hurt that you would even think that about me."

It was indeed the end of the conversation: Pam tried again several times as they flipped through a book of his teenage years, graduating high school, entering University, but Harley brushed her off again and again.

Even so, Pam did not miss just how her fingertips unconsciously lingered over his image, almost longingly as she turned each page.

OOO

_The photos end after he is 17. They end with a single picture, this one with an inscription in a different hand, a hospital room, filled with Get Well balloons and flowers. The small blonde is in bed, smiling weakly, displaying a beautiful handmade birthday card with the number 33 on the front. He clings to her and looks more like her now than ever, much the same as any photo from his childhood years, but now she is tiny, thin, almost transparent with long illness and it looks more as though he is cradling her now._

She knows that is exactly how his mother would have died, in the arms of the person she loved more than anything or anyone else in the world, her beloved only son. He would have stayed until every light had left her eyes, until she drew her last, tired breath against his chest and let it all go. 

She wiped quickly at her eyes, heart breaking for the both of them. The rest of the third book is blank, so she grabbed for the fourth, opening to find it full with far more recent pictures. There were no inscriptions in this one at all.

"Who took these?" Pam asked, leaning over, unable to keep herself uninterested.

"I don't know… it wasn't the Captain, he's in every picture." Her voice sounded watery, even to her own ears.

"Well, who _isn't_ in every picture?" They flip through, studying the faces of eleven separate soldiers until the pattern appears. She points finally at a short, stocky brunette with unmistakably blue eyes.

"It's him. He's taking the pictures. He's missing out of almost every photo, except when he's," she pointed at a soldier with glasses, "not in the picture."

"They looked like they were really close."

It's true; the men all appear to be the best of friends. There are pictures of them at shooting ranges, in the field holding scores of scrawny dead rabbits in one hand, some of them holding rifles, every one of them bearded and scraggly, the Captain holding the weapon of the hour in the foreground, a silenced Mark 25 pistol. Later, there are pictures of them eating those rabbits, camp and fires made in the middle of nowhere, pressed close to a rocky ridge in some unnamed portion of the desert. There is one of the Captain on the hood of a transport truck, the rest gathered around him. There are pictures from the heat of battle, one of a huge explosion, a multi-storied building crumbling to the ground in clouds of dust and debris, even a rather gruesome photo of the Captain picking through the pockets of a man with little more than pulp and shards of bone left for a face, an ecstatic smile stretched across his own, caught open-mouthed in laughter.

"Christ. They were a hardcore bunch, weren't they?"

"They were all Special Forces. He was there are as their leader, their teacher, if you will."

"They're all just as crazy as he is." Pam spat, but Harley only shot her a dark look.

These photos end abruptly, as well, an image of the Captain behind the wheel of the truck that Harley is sure would have led the maintenance convoy, eyes straight ahead but giving the cameraman a one-fingered salute, grinning as always.

"He could have printed that photo sometime that night, March the 29th, or maybe the next morning."

"What happens after that?"

"After that, they're captured and tortured for four or five days before the others are executed, and the Captain is left simply to bleed to death. He's picked up by a Marine Search and Rescue mission on the seventh day, and… fast forward to the present. He's here at Hines, and I'm his psychiatrist. I imagine this was given to me to satisfy my curiosity, but it only gave me more questions to ask him…"

"Yeah, well," Pam muttered. "You know what they say about curiosity…"

OOO

She has not felt this excited since the early days of their sessions, when she was only beginning to learn about him. Now, two weeks have passed, she has been forced to waste three of her sixteen sessions, and now she has only 2 weeks more. Walking into her office at 7 am on Monday morning, she goes over her notes at least five times before she can convince herself that she remembers the questions she wants answered, and tries to force her mind onto her other patients of the day (she reads through the notes three more times without realizing it).

He is exactly on time (in fact, 45 seconds till 8: Harley has been staring at the clock.)

"Captain," she says quickly as he enters the room, and the solemn turn of his mouth suddenly throws her off. It actually takes a full minute of him sitting silently before her before she finally catches on. She had threatened him to be on his best behavior, how could she have forgotten so quickly? She had been agonizing about the situation for days.

_Have I really gotten that scatter-brained_?

"I opened your gift, Jack," she says quietly, leaning forward a bit in her chair.

There is no change in his facial expression, but she thinks she sees something like surprise at her affability, then a new sort of glint in his eyes.

"Did you enjoy my gift, Dr. Quinzel?" His voice is perfectly modulated, even, serene. He is the picture of calm.

It's scaring the hell out of her.

"Yes, I did." She licks her lips nervously, glancing down at her notes. _God, what had she written down?_ "I'm… somewhat confused. I don't know why you would give me something so personal. We barely know one another, and while I find it clear that you understand what a tremendous insight you are giving me into your character, I'm not certain why you would be inclined to be so… gracious…"

"So cooperative?" He supplies and finally she sees the corners of his mouth stirring just a bit, the scars there dipping inward as he fights the smile. Docile does not suit him in the least.

"Yes," she says, frankly.

"I told you, you're far more interested in my past than I am. The longer I stare at these walls, every moment they keep me under lock and key, I find that I become increasingly aware that there is nothing but today. Everyday is a new day, as the saying goes. The past is irrelevant, a curious fact best forgotten in favor of more _constructive_ endeavors. They are what remain of my former life… I might have destroyed them. However, they might still serve a purpose. I shall forget them. My memories will become yours instead." His hands are folded harmlessly in his lap, but she finds herself eyeing them almost compulsively.

"I don't understand what you mean by your former life… and those albums…Your mother made those."

"Ah." He shakes his head, interrupting. "No. I made the albums. She took the pictures, she filled the books."

"You sew?" she asks, unable to keep the incredulity from her face and voice. The passive mask cracks and he laughs softly.

"You look amazed. It's very soothing actually. You can lose yourself in the rhythm of the stitches, sometimes it's just the thing to calm a racing mind, and I _love_ working with skin…" she blanches, and he snorts. "Leather, pumpkin, animal skin. I've never tried the other sort, unless you count emergency sutures." Despite his words, his voice is still very calm, and despite her best efforts she finds herself being soothed by their rhythm, following the beat of her heart exactly.

"I'm sure you have questions. Did you look at them all?"

"Yes," she says, nodding, pen poised over the blank paper eagerly. He raises his eyebrows, surprise again making its presence known briefly upon his features, flitting away just as quickly, fading back into his perpetual smile.

"You certainly are an eager student. I'm impressed. There are hundreds of photos."

She has no control of the blush that rises in her cheeks. _He probably thinks I'm obsessed…_ "It… only took a few hours." That only makes it sound worse… dear god, she really was obsessed. Was Pam right?

"You look distressed, beautiful, have I said something wrong?" For all of the anxiety in his voice, his face is completely impassive. She does not miss this.

"No, that's not it. You've done nothing wrong. You've done exactly as I asked."

"Asked? I rather took it as a demand," he says, chidingly, "you didn't even say please."

"I'm trying to be serious."

"As am I. I was hurt." He splays his hand over his heart.

"You're teasing me… and if you want to talk about getting hurt—"

"I could have done worse," he says, lowly, but Harley catches every word. He stares back at her plainly, steeples his fingertips together in front of him.

"Yes," she acknowledges, unconscious of the drop in her own voice. "Yes, you could have, but you did not. Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He tilts his head. Her pen has been forgotten on the desktop for some time. She draws her hands into her lap almost reflexively, looking back to him quickly.

"I think you're trying to manipulate me, Captain, in what direction I'm not yet certain."

He gives her a particularly toothy grin. "Smart girl. But does the ulterior motive alter the primary objective? You'll have to answer that for yourself before this can progress any farther."

"This?"

He mouths an 'Ah', raising an eyebrow. "The most immediate question. What do you want this to be?"

"Captain," she says, and actually manages to sound forceful. "That is inappropriate."

"You keep telling me that, Harley, does it seem to be doing you any good?"

She opens her mouth to speak; all that comes out is a frustrated noise. "No, it doesn't seem to be getting through to you at all," she mutters, disgusted. He smirks.

"So is it you or I who is not taking the hint? I'll not stop because no matter how many lies spill past your lips, your eyes tell the truth." A beat. "Don't you want to know the truth, Harley?"

"No," she says quickly, "I don't think I like your version of the truth. I think we have gone off on a tangent. I'd like to ask you some questions about the last photo album."

"No, not a tangent, we are perfectly on course, Doctor, you just haven't been looking at the right map." His tongue mops the corners of his mouth, darts back inside, clicks three times, a disappointed sound. "Children are so impressionable. You're trained so easily. That isn't a problem unto itself, if only you had the right trainer… someone with the proper… mastery of the craft, hmm?"

"And what craft is that, Captain?" His words have raised more than one alarm of outrage, but she can ask only one question at a time.

"The molding of suggestible minds, Harley. A subtle touch is needed. I'm a bold sort of guy, but I'm patient when I must be. If it is worth it."

"I don't think I like your implication."

"Touchy," he frowns at her, the expression absurd as always. "Everything can be altered, you just have to find your way to the inside. Are you going to let me inside, Harley?"

"Your flirtations are growing old, Captain," she says, wearily.

"My thoughts exactly. There's something wrong when my overtures begin to sound tedious to my own ears. When are you going to _answer_ them?"

"Jack, you already know my answer."

"No, I do not." He says, harshly enough to bring her to attention, the final word clipped into two sharp syllables. "You are reciting an entry in an ethics manual, Harleen, you're not telling me what you want. Why are you choosing to remain bound by their rules?"

"That is simply the nature of the beast, Captain. I am your doctor, and you are my patient. It is very easy to confuse the intimacy of the relationship with something… deeper… but that is not the case."

He looks utterly amused and unconvinced. "Yes, _I'm_ confused. I suppose I must have imagined how I could have had you coming with just a flick of my tongue the other day, in more than one way in fact, hmm?"

The blush deepens. Her fingers pluck nervously at her collar.

"You're being vulgar, Captain."

"Mm, but not a liar. That happy little title goes to you. You're living a fantasy… and not even an interesting one. I could change that, you see, if you would only let me. And I've asked ever so politely, Doctor, _ever_ so many times."

"The photo album, Jack," she blurts the words out, almost desperate to fill her mind with something other than his voice.

He sighs, eyes rolling, looking very annoyed, the set of his teeth together almost animal as he turns his eyes back to her. "Yes, Private Quinn, what about it?"

"Lieutenant Quinzel," she's gritting her own teeth now, and the smile tugs at his mouth again.

"Ah, yes! I outrank you, you know, and you're not following my commands at _all_. That, I'm afraid, is grounds for insubordination. I wonder what I should do with you. I suppose I could send you to the mess hall to peel potatoes, that'd be a thorn in your working woman side, hmm, kitchen work? But you're a little _testy_ today, and you'd be amazed the damage you can do with those potato peelers-"

"CAPTAIN!" She screams, unable to reign in her anger enough to check the volume of her voice. "You will stop this at once! We have 30 minutes left, and _you_ are wasting our time together. I would remind you that there are only two weeks left in your evaluation before the Lieutenant-Colonel decides whether you're worthy to even see the light of day again. I would have your focus,_ please_, placed where it is desperately needed: your own wellbeing."

His lips twist, looking supremely aggravated, but another sigh tears from between his teeth.

"I suppose you want to know about the last book."

"Yes, Captain, I do. You have refused to share any information in regard to that time, until now."

"Presumptuous, aren't we?" Harleen is exasperated that he cannot resist the urge to taunt her when the clock is rapidly chipping away at their time. He laughs, satisfied to again have the upper hand before he continues. "His name was Marcus Owen. He was a sharpshooter; the Project was interested in him for reasons of their own I'm sure. _He_ was the reason they sent me to Iraq. But he wasn't the reason I chose to stay."


	12. Chapter 10: Recollection, Part 1

Author's Chapter Notes:

This part contains crude language and racial slurs that are used in a joking way, not meant in offense.

I make a departure from my usual style by introducing a first person point of view for a new character.

OOO

It had been eight years now, and he'd lost count of the men who had been designated as his commanding officer. They were never particularly friendly, but they were often very nervous around him, and they had a tendency to disappear rather quickly. Jack found it amusing, true, but just another banal detail of life beneath ground. Besides, he had far more important things to worry about, his work, mainly, and occasionally throwing a surreptitious wrench in the proverbial gears of someone else's pet project.

Things were so _boring_ in the Underground when everything went according to plan.

He'd been six years old the first time he'd ever made his teacher scream (he'd managed to do it a few times after, just to see them crack). He never knew when to quit, she ranted to his mother, he always had to _push,_ just a little bit farther. It had driven her up the wall, but it was an excellent quality of mind to possess as a chemist: he pressed his experiments farther in their parameters than anyone else would even consider safe, and this method had led to many of his greatest achievements and discoveries.

Of course, it had also led to some of the most spectacular explosions the Underground had ever seen outside of the Munitions Department, but even those were a _blast_ when you got right down to it. It didn't even matter when they began to insist he clean up his own mess (that had taken, what, five times?), he could always amuse himself by recalling the chaos that inevitably ensued: the smoke, the fires, and the alarms, people running about and screaming their heads off, soaking wet from the sprinklers and sloshing through the hallways. Every shard of glass, bit of motherboard, every shattered computer monitor he'd lug out of the demolished laboratory, it all just made him laugh harder.

They began to insist that he keep his findings in a notebook until later in the day, because after that they gave him his own separate office to store his computers in (they were getting just an eensy bit tired of having to replace the them every two or three weeks, when one or the other piece would end up bombed-out, though that did nothing to save the rest of the laboratory's equipment).

Jack didn't mind the change in the least, he could write far faster with pen and paper then he could type, and it was much easier to simply pause and scribble something down in his own personal form of shorthand than it was to turn on the computer. The notebooks never lasted long, he had such a prolific mind it wasn't difficult to fill them with pages and pages of ideas. His mind worked unceasingly, sometimes he would even wake in the middle of the night with a brilliant idea and would have to go running to his laboratory in nothing but his pajama pants just to see if it would work.

Those sorts of ideas were always the best. And of course, working over night made it terribly easy to rummage about in other people's things which, really, was what had brought him to this situation in the first place.

It wasn't as though he actually believed he would never get caught. They weren't dumb, after all, he doubted there was a single person within the facility with an IQ of less than 150, someone was bound to put the pieces together eventually. They always had before and, accordingly, he had also lost count of the times he'd had to take the elevator up to ground level to get his monthly (sometimes bi-monthly) ass-chewing. It was bound to be a good one this time, with Moynihan in the infirmary.

It had been worth it just to see that fat old fuck white as a sheet and blubbering like a little girl, just to be able to jab the needle in as deep as he could when he delivered the injection of anti-venom.

Jack recalled every detail in a state of bliss as the elevator dinged and whirred up past floor after floor, finally jolting to a stop, the doors sliding open. Every hallway in this place looked exactly the same, plain and whiter, more sterile even than a hospital.

Jack absolutely hated hospitals.

OOO

See, in the beginning, it took a little while for the boys to warm up to him.

"Who in the fuck is that scraggly looking son of a bitch?"

"That, I'm imagining, is probably who we've been hearing about." I rolled my eyes at McCall pointedly, throwing a leg over the mess hall bench and sliding beneath the edge of the table. "They only told us six times we're getting a new one. Last one was sick of us, remember?"

"Yeah," McCall said happily, grinning and sitting down beside me. "How long you think this one's gonna last?"

"I'll give it a week." Owen replied as he sat down across from us, smooth black skin gleaming underneath the overhead lamps. "Thirty bucks says he's asking for a transfer by next Monday."

"I don't know," I hedged. "He looks pretty tough."

"They all look tough in the beginning," McCall said, pulling out the little notebook he always carried in his back pocket. "I've got Marcus for thirty, anybody else wanna place their bets?"

"Fifty bucks says he'll be gone by Friday," says Israel, who's on McCall's hip about as often as the notebook is.

"Friday," Four-Eyes scribbled down, glancing back up to me. "What about you, Benny, what's your bet?"

I considered for a moment, mulling the thought over, looking back over to the bearded man across the room. He was hunched over his tray, shoulders brought down defensively He had blonde hair that fell to the tops of his ears, a grown-out buzz cut that was madly curly. He had a cowlick that automatically made it part off-center and his skin and hair looked grimy in a way that spoke of too much sand and not enough shower. His DCU'S had a kind of empty look to them, like he'd lost some weight recently. "Hundred bucks."

"Ooh, high roller! What day?"

"Hundred bucks says he makes it." I looked back to McCall, who looked pleased as punch to write down the bet.

"I don't like your odds for a pay out, but I sure do like mine."

"We'll see," I said simply, and took another bite of food.

"Who's that?" asked a new voice.

"Question of the day," I replied.

"Eddie!" Owen grinned, reaching over to clasp the smaller man's hand. "Where you been, you little wetback?"

"Hey, fuck you, _chango_." Eduardo Nunez grinned setting his tray down and grabbing Owen's hand. "Nobody answered my question. Somebody ate you fuckers' tongues?"

"He's our new commander, best we can figure." McCall said, flipping his notebook back open with a flourish, dragging his glasses off of the top of his head and shoving them back onto his nose. "You taking odds, Eddie?"

"I'm Catholic. You know I don't gamble," Nunez said dismissively, sitting down beside Owen. "He's awful furry."

"You gonna tell him he need's a haircut, Eddie?" I laughed as the smaller man scoffed, pulling his head back in mock surprise. "That's what I thought. I guarantee you he just got in off mission. Look how he's eating."

I'd seen stray dogs that ate slower, neater than he did. He shoveled the food into his mouth as though he couldn't quite get enough, chewing with big chomps that made him look like his bottom jaw weighed twenty pounds. He ate with a spoon and his field knife, as though he'd forgotten to use the fork that still lay discarded on the table top. He had the perpetual quiet most of the other hardcore ones did, the really dangerous motherfuckers they didn't bother to give partners or teams, the kinda guys who did their work alone, and did it damn well. I had no idea why they would have tied him down to us like this.

"Hey! Hurry up, _ese_, I think it's gonna run away." Eddie shouted across the hall, and the man looked up without moving his head, spearing another piece of meat on the blade with a particularly vicious jab. He didn't honor him with a reply.

"I think he likes you, Nunez." I snorted. Eddie grumbled and looked back down to his food.

OOO

"Hey there, troublemaker."

It wasn't the voice he had expected. Jack swiftly entered the room, turning back to find a familiar face smiling at him. He had to bite back his grin in return, stiffening to attention and bringing his hand up in a salute. "Major, sir."

"At ease, soldier. Have a seat." Corian motioned to the chair in front of him. "So I've heard you've been making friends as usual?"

"Vicious lies," he said brightly, and took the offered seat. "What happened to .. uhh."

"Drummond? Asked for a transfer this morning. Apparently he was a little scared he might end up as your next pin cushion, anonymous no less."

Jack raised his eyebrows innocently, and Major Corian shook his head with a laugh.

"I don't want to hear your well-crafted denials, Lieutenant. That's not why I'm here. They're making you Captain."

His eyebrows hiked higher.

"You'll be receiving a transfer as well." He tossed a folder across the table. It landed with a quiet thump in front of him. "They're sending you to Iraq."

"Field work," Jack said, ecstatically, eyes lighting up. Corian laughed again.

"Initially, yes. But ultimately, we're giving you a team."

Jack frowned, deeply. "I work alone, you know that."

"Well, you've been given the order, and unfortunately for you, you aren't in a position at the moment to refuse it." He gestured to the folder, and Jack opened it, looking within to find the files of ten soldiers.

"Is this Moynihan's way of punishing me?"

"It's not a punishment." Corian shook his head.

"Riiight," Jack drawled, looking back to him. "These are the rejects. He's sending me to baby-sit B Company, and this isn't a punishment?"

"They're not bad kids, just misunderstood." Corian gave him a look as though to say they were just like him. "Just need the right guidance. They're all extremely talented. We've got our eye on a few of them, mainly the one from Georgia, Marcus Owen. He's a tight shot."

"So this is a recruiting mission?"

"That's part of it. We'll see how many qualify as Elite once you're done with them."

OOO

"Yeah, fucking charmer as always, Eddie," Owen snickered as he elbowed Nunez and dodged the deadly fork that was aimed his way. "You're a fucking Psycho! My brother had a Chihuahua like you once, same name!"

We dissolved into laughter, lost in our companionship as always. It was a common feature of groups like ours; rejected by everyone else we were forced to bond with what we were given. We had become family, bonds that were much closer than even blood could create. There was a movement from across the hall. I couldn't catch it entirely, only saw it in the corner of my eye, but it seemed like some representation of discomfort. Strange thought, really, but I shrugged it off, and glanced back to Eddie, nudging him under the table.

"Hey, _guero_, I'm talking to you, you're here, you might as well talk to us, we're not gonna disappear, hellooo…" he says, in one long, infinitely annoying string.

"He's gonna shoot you, Eddie, he's twitchin'" Owen sing-songed, trying unsuccessfully to hold back his laughter.

"You're a bunch of assholes, you know that?" I laughed, looking back to the nameless one across the room. "Don't mind them. They got about as much home-trainin' as a pair of damn strays." I was just short of laying my hands out palm-up as though to say, okay, routine's over, where's the answer?

There was a disgusted sound from across the room.

I kicked Owen in the shin. "You missed your cue, you ass!"

"Ow! Dammit, it was Eddie's fault!" He punched the Texan in the head, prompting an enraged yelp, and a prompt jab in the kidneys. "You low-blowing bastard!"

A quiet snicker.

"Finally!" I screamed, looking back to the blonde. "We had to resort to The Three Stooges, where in the fuck does your humor lie!?"

"Sight gags and physical humor, very sophisticated," McCall rolled his eyes, stowing his Army issue coke-bottles back onto his head after he was done peering over them imperiously, and turning back to his meal.

"Whatever the hell floats your boat," I said, grinning to the man across the room, who'd set the knife tip-down into the table momentarily. I took that for an affirmative, and advanced. "You gonna just be a loner the whole time? 'Cause I don't think you're gonna be able to accomplish your objective, if that's your plan of action."

"My only objective," the knife was out of the table now, making three swift swipes through the air, his wrist moving with each word as though he wasn't entirely conscious of its arcs through the air, the way a cat flicks its tail when it's angry, I thought, "is to eat in peace."

"Controlling bastard," Owen muttered, then laughed as Nunez mimicked the blonde perfectly, right down to the way his hairline shifted back as he'd started to sound a little annoyed.

I brought my head over, a signal to the boys, and grabbed my tray, making my way three tables over in the empty to hall to where the other man sat.

"Have it your way. You can't avoid us forever, gotta get to know us eventually, am I right?" I said, with a slight nod. The others followed me soon after, and I couldn't help but notice how the man stiffened. He seemed to take our proximity as almost a threat.

"You're the new Captain, am I right?" Nunez asked, ducking down so he could try to see into the bowed face that was still busy shoveling food.

"You've already pissed him off once," McCall said, "Shut the hell up, Eddie."

The blonde rolled his eyes, looking immensely put-upon, shaking his head slightly.

"Introduce yourselves to the Boss, boys," I said, and they did.

"Marcus Owen."

"Eduardo Nunez."

"Justin McCall."

"Israel Norton."

"And me, I'm Ben Ladue."

"Great," the blonde said, after a moment, smacking his lips after the next bite, "I've gone and joined the Mickey Mouse Club…. Where're the rest of the Mouseketeers?"

"Still out on courses," Israel said, with a nod of his own.

"So, tell us about yourself, Captain, what brings you here?" I say quickly, before the other man can say anything in return.

He smirked, the first variant of an expression beyond irritated I'd seen on his face yet.

"I'm here to serve my country."

"Oh bullshit!" Five men groaned at once, the still of the over-sized hall broken with a chorus of annoyance.

The Army is a little like prison. When you get on the inside, the inevitable question that everyone must ask is "So, what did you do?" In prison, the answer is always "I'm innocent."

In the Army, the question is "So, why'd you join up?" SOP states you're here to serve your country. The truth? Usually anything but.

"Give me a break," Owen muttered, and the blonde's lips twitched, hiding a grin.

"Honestly?" the Captain asked.

"Honestly." I nodded, tilting my head forward solicitously.

He glanced down to the knife thoughtfully, reaching up with a napkin to clean the blade with an exaggerated care that, nonetheless, did not seem to be show. After a moment, he slid it into the sheath I hoped was in his hip pocket, and looked back up to me.

"I just like to blow shit up," he finally said with a helpless shrug, hands tossed up carelessly.

There was a long moment of silence before every one of us burst into laughter, even the Captain eventually.

"Doncha know this is the Demolition Crew? You gonna fit right in, _mijo_." Eddie grinned, and offered his hand. He took it, after a long pause.

"The name's Jack."

"Nice to meet you, Jack." They all chorused, in one form or another.

See, in the beginning, it took a little while for the boys to warm up to him.

But me?

Me, I liked him immediately.

OOO

Chapter End Notes:

DCU = Desert Camoflauge Uniform

guero = a Mexicanism meaning blonde

SOP = Standard Operating Procedure

mijo = affectionate term meaning son

No, I didn't forget that I already have a character named Nunez in the story. There's a reason for it.


	13. Chapter 10: Recollection, Part 2

Author's Chapter Notes:

This part contains one sided slash, violence, crude language, and hints of torture.

Disclaimer: Property of DC Comics, not mine, blah blah.

There's one thing about it… at night, it's miserably cold, but you can see for miles in every direction.

There's maybe not a single place on Earth where you can see more stars than you can out here. You can learn to ignore the cold, but never the view. Every night is this kind of ecstatic agony, past the point of being tired, shivering with cold and exhaustion, stomach gnawing at itself, I want nothing more than to fall asleep, but I can't take my eyes off the sky. I'm not sure I even want to. It's an endless sea, a thousand pin points of light, like candles on the water in a photo I took in a place called Kyoto, but so cold and distant. It's beautiful but cruel, like a roomful of jewels held before a beggar, so clear but completely unreachable. Something of such inestimable value you'd give your life just to lay your hands on it once.

Beautiful and cruel… I've known people like that.

The night is quiet. I can still hear a couple of the boys whispering to each other, not wound down enough to rest, but mindful of those already under. Them I can hear snoring in the cold, dry air. The nine of them are about a hundred feet away, clustered together to take advantage of each other's body heat. It's colder to sleep alone, but it gives me space to think over the day, gives me the time I need to process and file away the occurrences, discard the useless information.

"It'd be a lot warmer on the pile," he says softly, breaking the quiet. I hadn't seen him approach, not a shadow of movement, hadn't heard his boots crunching over the sand and the gravel, even though I can hear it move beneath me as I sit up a little.

"It's definitely a three dog night," I say, by way of reply, "but you're not on it either."

"I don't sleep much," he says, still quiet, even though the others are too far away to hear, "Never have. Not the whole night through anyway..."

"Yeah, well, no one's likely to slit your throat out here." I smirk. "Don't look so surprised. You're not the only insomniac. Army's full of them. Too many fuckers hard up for a fight, too paranoid to fall asleep."

"I sup-pose," he says with a laugh. I like the way he says it, with two clear syllables just like the Japanese, another added onto the end just to make the word one of his own… and I like his laugh. It's a little unhinged, sometimes barely more than a giggle (he _giggles_), like there's a joke that no one gets but him.

I'd love it if he'd just let me in on the punch line.

"So, what are you one of the sleepless ones?"

"Nah," I shake my head. "I'll sleep like a rock once I get tired enough."

"Tired enough?" An eyebrow arches wryly, and I can see him slide his tongue in front of his teeth to feel the scar on his bottom lip. He's not conscious of the movement; I know this because I've seen him do it thousands of times.

"I'm plenty tired. I got the shakes," I hold out a hand in example. I'm trembling like a leaf, heart thudding like it's considering giving out. "Been running so hard all day I can't turn it off yet is all. Even my second wind's running on fumes."

"Alright, alright!" he laughs, "I get it. You've been rode hard and put away wet."

"I wish," I quip, and we both laugh. "What about you, you got somebody with a yellow ribbon back home?" He shakes his head, corners of his mouth quirking down.

"You?"

"Nah," I give a shake of my own, "Too young to settle down. Don't really trust nobody to wait for me."

"Come on, plenty of girls—"

"Yeah, plenty of 'em, but just cause they're looking at me doesn't mean I'm looking back. Man's gotta have standards."

"And they don't meet 'em?"" He sounds amused… a little too amused.

"Not most of them… Hey, you try and tell me beggars can't be choosers and you _better_ hope you don't fall asleep tonight."

"Am I that transparent?" his voice deepens into incredulity.

"You motherfucker!" I yell.

Yeah, I really like that laugh of his.

"Will you two girls shut the hell up?" Brandon shouts, then I hear thuds as everyone who's awake enough to get a punch in does so. Mr. Hamptons grunts in pain. "Ow! Jesus! It's not my fault!"

We both laugh, half-choking on it now, but he grins at me, holds up a finger to his lips.

"You still awake?" he whispers.

"I'm looking right at you, dumbass."

He rolls his eyes, but I'm as familiar with the whites as I am the irises these days. "C'mon… Lemme show you something."

There's not meant to be any room for questions, and I've got no choice but to scramble out of my mummy, and trip after him. I hate how fast that fucker moves, especially when I can't see where the hell I'm going, especially when I'm slipping and sliding up the side of a mountain that's more scree than it is slope.

"Jack, wait up!" I hiss.

"Better pick up the pace." I've got no idea where his voice is coming from now.

"Whatever happened to no man left behind? Jack?" I clear the ridge quicker than I expected it, damn near sending myself face-first down the other side. I skid down on one knee and my hands until I can get my feet back under me. The moonlight hits over here; I can see each puff of my breath on the air and the sweat on my skin feels like ice as I scan.

No sign of him.

The north and south ends of the ridge fall away into the desert below, but it's lit about as clear as day out there, moon's full, I'd see him on a night like this, no matter how fast. That leaves just the east, the side I've already fallen a quarter of the way down. The next ridge doesn't rise quite as high as this one, about half its size in fact, as flat as this is steep. I could land right on top of it, if only I could breach the gap, but there's a canyon some twenty feet across in between them, looks like maybe a river used to flow here, a long time ago. The shadow falls deep there; I can't see a thing farther than two feet ahead of me.

"Jack!" I hiss into the darkness. My voice echoes back to me, but nothing else, not even the scrabble of sole on stone.

I'd like to know what in the hell he thinks he's playing at.

It's just as hard to make it down this side as it was to climb up the last one. Quicker, but the way a bullet's quicker than drowning: either way, you're still dead. It's hard to keep my feet underneath me, let alone keep my balance or control the speed of my descent as the shards of stone shift and slide against one another.

"If I break my leg, I'm gonna break your scrawny neck, Napier!"

The final four feet to the ground is a sheer drop. Pitch black, I can't see that, but I realize it just about the time I land in a heap and narrowly avoid twisting my ankle up underneath me. Thank god for combat boots…

"Jack!" I try again. I'm starting to get annoyed mainly cause I'm also starting to get worried. What if he isn't playing? What if his clumsy ass fell and cracked his head? He could be laying in the dark bleeding. He could be dead two feet away from me.

"Goddammit, Napier, this ain't funny no more!"

I'm certainly not laughing, cause he's already on me.

There's a forearm at over my throat, and I can hear the wind rushing over something small, something slicing through the air. He's already got me hard around the neck, can't quite draw a breath, I kick out wild with both feet and manage to connect with an outcropping. The canyon narrows down here, its hard enough to send him back into the opposite wall, I hear him contact, feel the thud in my own chest, feel his breath hot on the back of my neck as it forces the air out of him. Too little, too late, his other arm has already finished its work and there's a blade at my throat; I go rigid, still, the edge is whisper-thin, pressed tight enough to bite. I swallow nervously; regret it as the blade sinks the rest of the way in with the movement. I can feel the blood all the way until it disappears into my collar: it feels hot on my chilled skin.

The toe of his boot digs into the hollow of my right knee, and it's either let him tear the ligaments or follow him down. My ankles are pinned under his when we land, his knees on either side of mine. Any movement I make is just gonna give him the leverage he needs to damn near cut my head off with that thing. Resistance would be suicide at this point.

I try to stay relaxed, find it a lot harder than it seems. He laughs real quiet, right in my ear.

"I could kill you, you know, I could make your head flop around like a Pez dispenser, and no one is close enough to even hear you choke."

The arm around my throat moves, slides around my hips. All the blood drains from my face, I think my heart's gonna crack my chest open. His hand slides across my lap, and I can't breathe. God, he's really gonna do it, he's really gonna touch me.

His hand pats my pockets and moves on while I try not to choke on my own disappointment.

"You didn't even bring a weapon."

"I didn't think," I manage to force out.

"Too trusting," he whispers, "Too trusting by far."

He's not behind me anymore. My back feels cold. I still can't breathe. Half a second later, he's in front of me. I know this, cause he flips on a flashlight, holding it under his chin like an overgrown kid at a sleepover, but soon the shadowy grin starts to fade.

"Oh come _on_, Ben, why the long face? It was just a joke. You've got to be more alert, keep a higher guard is the point… What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

"You cut me," I mutter, after a long moment. Seems as good a thing to say as any.

He pouts, actually fucking _pouts_.

"You've done worse to yourself shaving, I've seen it! Lighten up, I was just playing with you, no reason to get all bent out of shape. Come ooon, what's wrong?"

Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph help me, he's _oblivious_. Oh, I fucking _hate_ him.

"What in the hell did you bring me out here for, Jack, just to scare me?" Tease me, more fucking like it.

His face is blank for a moment, before it seems to dawn on him.

"This way," he gestures with the beam of the flashlight, a wave of his hand in the half second of illumination I have to see it.

"Asshole," I mumble.

"I heard that, Ladue. I'll take it out of your ass tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah… Just get on with it, I'd like to get some fucking sleep between now and then."

He's pissed at me now, pissed I didn't get the joke. I'm pissed because that's what _happens_ when you haven't gotten laid in six months, the last time I managed to run into an old friend in Tikrit. Now I'm stuck with _him_.

And him? I could_ strangle_ him.

OOO

He's tired, but that's what happens when you've been awake for twenty-four hours, when you've been sitting in a little room with bright lights and no furniture, just him and him and the chains and _him_, smug, stupid fuck. He coughs carefully, his ribs are bruised but he has to clear the blood out of his mouth. It's been gushing out of his nose for about thirty minutes now, and he thinks maybe he feels just a little light headed. He feels pain, but he tries to dull his body's perception of it. It gets easier the longer it happens, the worse it gets. All of it starts to blend together, breathing, blinking, being is painful, it fades into the background, a constant of reality like the sun setting and rising.

The stupid fuck is sleeping. Jack hasn't slept, they won't let him, every time he begins to let his head droop, it's kicked upright again by one of his guards.

"Can't a girl get a little beauty sleep," he moans dramatically, and the man just stares at him. He sucks on his teeth, mock-cringes. "Tough crowd."

He spits blood again, shifts, hoping this time he might be able to get his legs out from under him. They went to sleep about twenty minutes ago, and he feels paralyzed.

"Oh, no, haven't we made you comfortable enough?" Oh, _god_, not him again. "Joe, fix his legs for him."

Jack squeaks out a laugh as the guard kicks him in the side, cracks him in each kneecap with the butt of the rifle. "Oof… that would have worked… a lot better… if I actually could have felt it… Your timing is lousy. My timing is all _wrong_, by the way, I would have thought you to still be napping." He grins with red teeth at the man. The man smirks.

"It's been eight hours."

That's a blow.

"Well, into another day, are we… let me loose, I've got to make a mark on my calendar, anyone have a _pencil_? Pencil, pen, grenade? I'm not picky. All equally efficacious. Anyone? No takers?"

"You love the sound of your own voice, don't you?"

"It's a little loopy, I know, but as the only intelligent life on this planet, I kinda feel the need to keep myself compa—" The boot sinks into his stomach, he coughs and laughs, laughs harder when the blood splatters all over his clean uniform. The prick makes a noise of disgust, the world slips out of focus as his head rocks to the side. "This is all… very familiar to me… I knew a guy like you once… you know what I did to him?"

"You just never shut up… you talk, and you talk, but you never say what I wanna hear… I'm getting tired of it… You killed three of my boys last night, you know that? With your little _escape_ attempt."

"Oh, who cares about them, look what they did to my hands! Talk about being hard-headed!" His head rocks the other way. There are little red dots on the wall behind him as it snaps to the side again. It's like art, he thinks, and giggles. "I'm serious, though… I could use some… Neosporin or something… I might develop scars! My knuckles are just ruined… I had such high hopes for a career as a hand model."

The man lets out a scream of frustration, and Jack has no choice but to curl into a ball as the boot slams into him again and again, but he can't guard all of himself, not at once. He has to stop to breathe, and Jack thinks it a little unfair, seeing as he lost the ability long ago.

"This kicking shit is getting really old…" Jack mutters, watching the blood pool in the dust beside his face.

"You're right," he says, "let's try something new… Take his boots off, Joe."

OOO

There is a knock at the door.

A little brunette nurse is behind it, along with her next patient. She almost feels bad as she snarls at her… didn't that unfortunate girl handle her appointments?

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I mean, Dr. Quinzel, its 9:30, and your next appointment is—"

"Canceled! They're all canceled! I am not to be disturbed again today! There is a reason the door was _locked_!"

She slams the door in her face.

Carrington snorts, after a moment, blinking at the poor girl who was still standing with her nose one centimeter from the door, trembling on the edge of tears. He wrapped a gentle arm around her shoulder, pulling her back. "Doc's been a little… erratic lately… Kinda makes you wonder which one's the crazy in the room right now…"

The brunette sniffs quietly. "I don't need to know which one's the crazy… I just… don't know which one's scarier… You know, I hear she's on meds herself. They shouldn't let people like her become a doctor..."

"Kinda upsets the established order of things, huh? Come on, if we catch it right Marie'll just be making another pot of coffee…"

He had an ambling stride that made it easy to disappear into the background. They never noticed him as they passed him by in the alcove, the diminutive female simpering another snide comment, something to do with bruises on her throat… He'd never seen him lay a hand on her… had never _seen_ him do it… but sometimes the answer lay in the unseen, the unsaid. Nurses gossip, she'd said…

She had certainly been right about that.


	14. Chapter 10: Recollection, Part 3

Author's Chapter Notes:

This part contains slash, violence, foul language, and descriptions of torture. The usual disclaimer applies. Anybody from Batman belongs to DC Comics, anybody I created, belongs to me.

OOO

She was almost terrified to turn around. She wasn't certain what sort of expression he would have on his face. He'd told her _so_ much, in so short a time, she couldn't stand the thought of having him go cold again, clam up the way he had before. The distance between them would be _unbearable_. She wouldn't be able to _stand_ it.

"I'm so sorry, Captain… I lost… track of the time…"

"I should be going," he says, softly, and she can barely restrain the cry of frustration as he begins to rise.

"No!" she squeaks out, hands reaching out for him before she snatches them back. "Don't stop," she whispers, painfully conscious of the glimmer of humor in his eye… she _knows_ how that sounds… she doesn't care. "Please."

"Since you asked so sweetly," he whispers in return… she remembers when he said it before, knows that is exactly what he himself is picturing… for all of his agitation, his smile says he'll do it again if she likes, and she shivers, unable to hold his gaze. Her pen is trembling on the paper.

"Please continue, Captain…"

OOO

He'd heard so frequently from people that he was childish he'd ceased being irritated by it (being called _crazy_, now that one still stung), but they, the ones who'd told him he needed to grow the hell up, well… they'd never met THESE clowns.

"Oh my god," Brandon moaned. "I am _so_ hungry! Why the _hell_ are we still out here? Are you trying to kill us?"

"I'll kill you myself if you don't shut the fuck up," Owen whispered, sighting his rifle in on the target Jack had instructed to be set up one mile away. It should be a baby shot for him, but Jack knew the effect he could have on people. What was it that the one… what was his name…Benjamin… something or other…? He'd always been horrible with names. What had he said? That he had a _presence_ among the men. He rather liked the notion, the weight of the word.

And he rather liked that Ladue, that was his name, smart kid. Had beaten his CO into a temporary coma after a particularly brutal day on the course, which was what had brought him here with these misfits.

A general contempt for authority wasn't a typical trait for a soldier… then again, he'd always hated the typical.

He'd been too much of an asset to lose, which meant probation with the dregs, just like Jack. He found it funny how often he could find a bit of _himself_ in others, when they all claimed he was so _different_. Crazy, just because they couldn't catch up!

Jack dragged himself back to reality, shaking his head just a little as he leaned in close, could catch sight of a piece of the target through the scope…Owen never quite put his eye to it, left a bit of the shot to chance… Jack respected that.

"Bring it down just a little," he whispered… the rifle moved imperceptibly, finger tightening on the trigger in a way that involved the tensing of his entire arm, the shot ringing out with a clear crack, echoing off the hillside. He had time to straighten and bring the binoculars to his eyes to watch clearly before the wooden head splintered into a perfect shower, leaving the dummy dangling, quite effectively decapitated.

He clapped Owen on the shoulder, nodding in approval as he sank to one knee.

"Nice, now, the next one, mile and a half o—"

"What the hell is that?"

His face fell, lips pursed in irritation. "I am getting… thoroughly… tired of being interrupted, Private…" he said, in a high, thin whisper.

"He's gonna kill you," It was Ladue this time, sing-songing the line they tossed about habitually from some abhorrent excuse for a comedy that Jack had never bothered to watch. He was stretched lazily on top of a boulder, sunning himself as though he hadn't a care in the world, like he was at the beach and not in the middle of a war zone, shirt folded over his eyes.

"Yeah, well, you kill me if it'll get your rocks off, either way I'm getting tired of being hungry! We ran out of food a day and a half ago, and that's a fucking rabbit!"

Wentworth tipped his head slowly, just like he did everything slow, looking down the sight of his own Browning.

"That's… the scrawniest excuse for hare-flesh I ever saw…" he mumbled. He never bothered to raise his voice, never bothered to increase the speed of his words no matter how dire the situation. Jack hated the North Texas drawl and found the man to be a hazard to his health: he bored him to _death_.

"I don't care," Brandon was saying, stretching himself prostrate upon the ridge. That one was from Connecticut. Some Senator's punk kid, too much pull from Daddy for a dishonorable discharge, but no interest in his duties whatsoever. He was whiny, always looking for a way to piss someone off, hoping they might finally see fit to get rid of him. He pulled the trigger and Jack kicked him in the shoulder roughly.

"Ow! God dammit, I missed! What the hell was that for, Napier?"

The rabbit, already spooked by the first shot that rang out overhead, took off running at the second shot that buried in the ground in a small plume of dust, some twenty feet off target.

"You'll waste the meat," Jack hissed. "Hit it with that, and there won't be anything left to eat, you moron." He was digging inside his jacket, and Owen had already caught on.

"That's fifty yards and a moving target, come on, Cappy, can't nobody make that shot!" He was protesting right up until the moment Jack had the pistol free and aimed, firing his shot with the whistle of the silencer less than a second after lowering the Mark 25 into position.

Owen stared speechlessly as the rabbit let out a small screech, the small brown body spinning through the air before landing, still. His mouth was still hanging open when he turned it toward Jack, shaking his head.

"Ain't no damn way…"

OOO

It was hard to breathe with broken ribs, hard to take a breath without disturbing them when he couldn't stop shivering, shaking with the pain.

"They call it al-falaka… they use… steel cables… and they beat the bottoms of your feet until they're bruised so badly… you can't possibly walk on them, till you can't stand it… I think that's a little juvenile for you, though, so we'll have to bring things up a notch."

They'd seared the bottoms of his feet first with a blowtorch, pulled back before they reached third degree, and then carved diamonds into the soles, each individual line agonizing, worse as they connected endlessly, one over the other.

"Feeling talkative, pretty boy?"

"Yes, actually," he whispered. His voice sounded nasally, even for him (he'd always had such a high voice for a man) and he had to laugh at himself. His nose was still broken, but it was clotted now. Some skinny, mousey bastard had given him an injection and… just like magic, the bleeding had stopped. Lucky him."How's the weather today? Lemme guess, hot as hell? How's the old woman? She like it from behind? I'd just like to get a few ideas of what to do when I get outta he—"

"Alright, smart-ass."

It took five tries before he could get all three shards of molar out of his mouth.

"That… that was a good shot. That tooth's been… killing me for days… I've been putting it off for a long time. I hate my dentist… see, he's really a _sadistic_ fuck… You'd probably like him, I bet you could learn a thing or twoo-hoo-oh, you never let me finish a sentence, do you? Did I hit a nerve this time? Cause I see you're still searching for one of mine."

The door opens and the little brown mouse in his little white doctor's coat is in the doorway. There's blood splattered across the front of the coat. It isn't his, and it isn't Jack's, and he fights the urge to gag, to scream, to find a way to tear his hands free of the manacles and tear him apart. How _dare_ they… how dare they even _touch_… and he'd been hearing the screaming for _hours_…

"The others haven't revealed anything."

"I didn't think they would. You're too smart to have told them anything, aren't you?" He grins amiably at the prick. There is brown between his teeth now, old dead blood beneath the fresh red. "Or are you? Let's have some… individual sessions… see what turns up, right?"

He's sure the prick notices when his eye twitches.

OOO

He has become visibly very agitated, little repetitive motions that from eye witness accounts she knows signal the beginning of an episode.

"Jack," she says quickly, "Jack." He's not hearing her, is still speaking quietly, entirely to himself and his muscles are tightening all over in a way that terrifies her, sends alarm bells all through her head and she springs at him, darting around the desk and grasping him by the face. She can feel the scars beneath the palms of each hand, the strands of his hair tickling her fingertips.

"Jack!" Louder now, but there's some recognition in his eyes, even as his hands close reflexively over her wrists, nails digging in, drawing blood. "Come back! It's over, it's just a memory… come back to me, Jack," she whispers, holding back the whimper as his grip tightens.

She can feel the bones in her wrists grinding together.

"He knew," he says gutturally, almost choking, and suddenly the hands on her wrists are gone, fisting into his hair and she snatches them away before his grip is good enough to tear and cradles them to her stomach. He pulls her close and her skirt rides high on her legs as she quickly tucks them to the side, narrowly avoiding straddling his lap.

Bad enough just to be sitting here… bad enough that it felt so good.

"Shh, shh," she whispers, and strokes her hands over his hair, trying to soothe him, trying to ignore her heart pounding in her chest. This… this is only to stave off another violent episode… it won't do anyone good were he to hurt himself or another, it is her only choice, her only option to ground him and bring him back to reality.

It has absolutely nothing to do with just how strong his thighs feel underneath hers, nothing to do with how parts of her tighten as each warm, ragged breath sinks through the fabric of her blouse, her bra, nothing to do with the way his hair smells of soap and something more, something that's just him, and how something so simple, so boring could smell so intoxicating.

"God help me," she whispers, hoping the Captain does not hear her. His arms are locked around her waist immovably, so she cradles his head against the pillow of her breast, and tries to make herself comfortable as she waits until he is ready to begin speaking again.

It's much easier than she wants to admit.

OOO

It's such a rare thing to find himself stretched out on a thoroughly comfortable bed, and he's nearly comatose with relief, relaxed because his body and mind is stringy, and thin, and stretched to its limits, and he can only lay there in the half-light of the impromptu curtains that are hung over his bunk and listen to the others talk in the room beyond him. This is the last bunk in the room, the only one pressed against the wall, and he lies with his back against it, soothed, protected enough to begin to let himself drowse, dozing lightly.

"See that, that right there is the real love of my life, my better half." Nunez is saying, talking to Benny who, from the sound of his voice, is still lounging, draped across the bed over his, one leg and arm dangling over the edge.

"You might as well be looking in a mirror."

"Yup. That's my brother. We were born on the same day, we gonna die on the same day. We always used to say we gonna share the same coffin."

"So, where is he?"

"Ah, well, see, he only enlisted… He's over here somewhere, he's with Armored, but I haven't laid eyes on him in at least a year. I miss him… worry about him. Wish I could talk to him regular, you know."

"Yeah," Benny says softly, and his mind wanders.

Jack remembers a night they spent in a cave together, both angry, seething, enraged, Jack almost angry enough to forget why he brought them out there in the first place, skidding down a mountainside to the bottom of the riverbed.

He remembers the shadows the torch had cast on the walls, illuminating ancient designs carved and painted (the damned kid still hadn't gotten the joke), and he'd been forgiven (Jack couldn't have cared less about that) but he was just so full of awe at what Jack had shown him that he'd forgotten to give the kid a proper upbraiding for being so willfully obtuse.

He remembered the shadows that had been cast over his face a full year later as they stood pressed together, positions switched, blue eyes as full of steel as the blade at his throat and…

"Is _that_ what you want?" he'd jeered.

"I can't take this anymore…You can tell them I forced you," he'd whispered and Jack pressed into the blade until he'd had to let up the pressure to keep from opening the artery altogether and, when he was close enough, he'd whispered back, "You won't have to."

He imagines being able to reach up and feel a familiar hand just on the other side of the curtain, the way he feels it so often through his clothes, clandestine snatches of time together, and he finds he enjoys it so much more when he doesn't need to hold back. No gentle, yielding limbs that bruise so easily under his hands, no tiny, boring whispers of 'You're hurting me', no, something strong and resisting, hurting as much as being hurt, and he thinks he'd have been enjoying this pastime long before if only he had _known_. He thinks of how it feels to bring the blood up, red beneath the skin and so warm, what it tastes like when it finally escapes into his waiting mouth.

The room has quieted, nothing but the deep rumble of sleeping breaths.

He curls into the soft mattress, and tries to think, instead, of stone.


	15. Chapter 11: Interruption

Author's Chapter Notes:

Unbeta'd, as usual. This part contains crude language, violence, descriptions of torture, and... smut... you got it, smut. Rough sex and implied dub-con.

OOO

He is so tired. He remembered the strange description Ben had given him… shaking, heart thumping, that was how he felt now. He'd never felt it before. He had never been a tired person; he had always had energy enough to complete the day and then some. It was why he hardly ever slept. He was always buzzing, spinning, working, something to do, something to do!

He hasn't moved in days and he's so tired of living that he just wants to stop breathing… He has actually. Tachypnea, dyspnea, cyanosis, tachycardia, cardiac arrest, grand mal seizure, tube thoracostomy, they all seem so stiff and clinical for what is really happening to him. His arms are pinned to the sides, filled with IV's and there are so many bags hanging above him. The little brown mouse has become a constant fixture in the room. He looks as tired as Jack feels, monitoring him constantly. The machines beep and measure his breathing, his pulse. They keep him alive and then try to beat him to death everyday. It's been days, it must be, they've gone to sleep and Jack hasn't and he's never been so tired.

"You should just make this easy on yourself," the little brown mouse speaks and Jack turns his head, wiggles his fingers and his toes just to watch him squirm. Little slivers of bamboo protrude from his digits, and he'd taken him on a veritable world trip, hadn't he? Jordan to Vietnam. "Just give him the passwords. That's all you have to do. Make this easy on all of us. It isn't healthy breathing this air; those bodies are rotting right beside us. Just give up."

Jack laughs, throws back his head and wails until blood is burbling past his lips with each peal, and the little brown mouse is the one to give up, retreating to the far side of the room, far from Jack and the increasingly high pile of dead soldiers that is all that remains of the boys… _his_ boys. He wants to scream and rave and wail and he has, he has already because he can't take this anymore. He wants to scream, and he has… hasn't done him any good, though.

It's morning. It must be morning, because he's back. He knows his name, has heard it from some of the little scurrying underlings, but Jack can't think of it. All he can think is how much he'd love to have that knife in his hands right now, how he wants to carve out his fucking eye and make him pop it like a little grape with his own fucking teeth, those little straight white teeth. He thinks he'd like to make a necklace out of those teeth, and then he speaks.

"I'm getting tired of this. It _stinks_ in here." It's a personal jab. They haven't let him move from this spot in days. "More than just that… though… I _hate_ the smell of dead bodies… dead Spic in particular. I'm getting tired of _being_ here, I'm getting tired of doing this. This isn't my cup of tea, you know… I don't particularly like doing this to you."

"You're missing out," Jack says solicitously.

"What are you holding out for? Who are you protecting? They sold you out, Napier, _they_ sent me here. What is this? I never would have figured you the type for misguided loyalty."

"It's not loyalty," Jack says brightly, though his voice is barely more than a whisper these days. "I just like pissing you off."

The man is turning his back to him, hands fisting at hair that isn't long enough to even grab, just an old reflex.

"I'll tell you what you need to know," he says quickly, and the man whirls on him. He waits until he's right in front of him before he begins to speak, all eager and expecting. "You really need to lighten up. Have you ever considered yoga?"

The kick lands squarely on his chin and his head cracks against the wall, and everything goes fuzzy, disappearing beneath a shower of sparks.

"Alright," he rasps, "so maybe you're more of a Pilates guy… you could have just said so."

He goes entirely under for a moment and the man is shaking him when he comes to, has pulled him as far away from the chains as he can be pulled.

"You wake the fuck up!"

The brown mouse checks the monitor, then injects something into one of the IV's and Jack is, he is instantly awake and shivering. The smug fuck is advancing on him, and it is glittering in the air, so beautiful but it's coming for him.

"You think you're so fucking funny, don't you? A regular fucking clown, that's what you are. I'll tell you what, pretty boy, I'm gonna help you out with this new career choice of yours…. Every clown's gotta have his cosmetic. You got the… got the eyes already there, so let's finish it up. Let's put a _smile_ on that face."

OOO

She's getting just a little dizzy at this point, she thinks.

He is no longer speaking, and she thinks that surely he must be willing to release her soon. The shaking of his shoulders has ceased and the dampness on her blouse is beginning to cool, now. She has tried talking to him, but he is either not capable of hearing, or simply not listening. In the end, the result is the same, and her ribs are beginning to bruise because of how tightly his arms are wrapped around her. She buries her face and her fingers in his hair and tries to ignore the pain, or rather more importantly, the distressing, incongruous response that she has to it. Much more difficult is trying to ignore how her entire body feels flooded with heat. Only years of training a perpetual rigidity into her posture keep her from trembling within his crushing embrace, but it is becoming impossible not to pant against his scalp.

She tries to convince herself it is only because it is also impossible to draw a full breath.

He moves suddenly, seems to burrow his face against her, and this catches her attention, more so as he begins to mouth at a part of her body that he has no business touching at all. She squirms within the tight circle of his arms, trying to get some distance between her body and his, and suddenly his arms tighten further, squeezing a fresh protest from her bruised ribs. Her breath is forced out in a hollow squeak, and her struggles increase in vigor, trying to move away from him in earnest as the damp fabric is wetted completely, his mouth clamping over her breast, the suction rough.

"Captain, please," she whimpers, hands shoving weakly at his shoulders. She has no idea what she is asking for.

He gives a quiet grunt, and she squeaks again as his laughter sends puffs of warmth over her sensitized flesh, and it is no longer his lips, but his teeth that have found her nipple, tugging roughly at it suddenly, the pain dull only because of the layers of fabric between them.

"You can keep doing that… but I don't think it's… gonna have… quite the effect you're looking for." He arches against her to prove his point and she freezes. There is suddenly no containing her trembling: a shudder tears through her for she can quite clearly feel the bulge of his erection pressing into her. He growls in satisfaction, hips thrusting again, rubbing his rigid cock against her unabashedly, and she can feel the vibrations of his voice within her flesh as his lips, teeth, and tongue return to their former work.

"Stop it." Her voice is barely a whisper, but she can breathe now, he has released her. One arm falls around her lower back, reaches around her, fingers hooking under the hem of her skirt and tugging it higher, around her hips, and her cheeks burn in humiliation as her panties flash, white and lace and nearly transparent with wetness.

"A thong? So blatant, Dr. Quinzel, I think you've wanted this for a _while_." She struggles against him and squeezes her knees together, but the fingers of each hand force between them, pulling them apart so roughly the muscles in her hips scream against it.

She whimpers again, tries to lean away from him, hoping to fall out of his lap, but he has too much strength in the arm wrapped around her waist: her efforts do little more than press her tighter against him and she realizes with an agonized mewl that through the thin fabric of his hospital pants she can feel him throbbing against her bare bottom.

"Please don't do this," she begs, throwing her head back as though it might all go away if she simply closes her eyes, but his hand has already slid higher, pressing into her cleft and her hips jump forward as the roughness of the lace slides over her already swollen clit.

"No, please, please don't… You can't." She sobs helplessly and the tears feel blisteringly hot on her face, sliding back into her hair.

"No, no more, oh no, don't, stop, no, oh, no, more, don't stop!" he whispers against her, the high falsetto as mocking as his soft laughter, and the pain is sharp this time when it comes: the buttons fly away as the silk of her shirt is torn open, his hand wrenching down the cups of her bra to expose each globe of her breast and she feels obscene, like some naughty secretary in a snuff film, and her nipple blooms red in the wake of his teeth. She grits hers against the scream, bucking against him but he presses with his fingertips, hard and fast as he grinds against her again, and how could he know to do it that way, how could he know? Her body has already learned to blend the two; she moans softly and cannot tell where one begins and the next ends: the pain, the pleasure, the attraction, the revulsion.

"Oh god," she groans, and her face falls forward, his tilting up to meet hers in the same moment and their teeth click together briefly before his mouth seems to devour hers. Her glasses smash hard into the bridge of her nose. Her blood is on his tongue, salty and metallic and still warm and unbidden her hips arch into the rhythm of his touch: he accepts the invitation and his hand glides beneath the waistband of her panties, slipping in two fingers. She gasps into his mouth and tries to deny how easily they slid inside, how tight her muscles clench around them, how good it feels to be filled somehow… how good it feels that he is the one to do it.

"Jack, stop, please," she sobs again, brokenly, and her hips fall into rhythm so easily as he pounds his fingers into her, grinding the heel of his palm into just the right spot and, no, God, no!

He wrenches her spectacles away, hinges catching and tearing strands of her hair as they pass, and she doesn't have free mind enough to worry whether they might have broken when they hit the wall.

"You don't want me to stop," he laughs again and licks her ear, sloppy, slick, and warm, then blows into it, giggles as she shudders, and closes his teeth over her earlobe, flicking his tongue against it, whispering to her, voice a silky whine, "No, I don't think you do… I think you want me to make you come, don't you? Does my good little girl want to come, hmm? Show Daddy why you're his good girl," he whispers, and she whimpers, keens quietly as his fingers twist within her, and she feels as though she could stop breathing before she could stop herself from obeying him. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, breathes into the crook of her neck as she leans back against it for leverage, increasing the pace of her hips, slamming against his hand. "That's it, Harley-girl, ride it, hmm? Pretend it's my cock, deep inside that tight little pussy, right? Filling you and stretching you, I could fuck you till your teeth rattle, would you like that, baby?"

Her moan is too loud as she thrashes against him, undulating against his palm, and he clamps his free hand over her mouth, fingers and thumb digging bruises into her jaw as the other hand continues to work brutally within her, nails scraping, almost gouging, and she wants to scream and cannot; the breaths panting through her nose are pitching higher and higher. The world begins to sparkle, she is nearing hyperventilation, dizzy again, and her scream is muffled as the coiling spring within her shatters, its tension complete.

She sinks her teeth into the meat of his palm, he snarls into her ear and she comes harder than she ever has in her life, shudders nearing convulsive, shout caught in her throat, eyes rolling back as the tang of his blood fills her mouth completely.

He works her until the last of the tremors subside, and she whimpers helplessly, for her flesh has become painfully sensitive, and he laughs as she tries to squirm away again, parched throat emitting a low whine. He pulls his fingers from her finally, giving her a pointed look as he wipes them clean on the exposed skin of her thigh: they leave a glistening trail that is vaguely pink. She swallows weakly, blushing furiously, looks down to avoid his eyes, must look up again to avoid the sight of his hand clenched on her thigh possessively and Harley can feel the delicate band of scars on his right wrist pressing just over the knee of her left leg.

Her mouth works prematurely, but she cannot think of a single word to fill it with.

"You talk far too much, Harley," he says brightly, "if I'd known this was all it took to shut you up, I would have done it a long time ago."

"Are-are you going to let me go now, Jack?"

"Nope, there it goes again… But I don't really think you're done, do you?" She doesn't need any pointed motion from him; she can still very easily feel the heat of his flesh straining against the fabric. She could scream for help, she could scream and guards would come and they would lock him away, and she would never have to see him again, never have to deal with him again. She tosses the thought about in her mind, is devastated by how sad it makes her. She doesn't want him to go away, not ever. Oh God… Pam had been right.

She is falling in love with him.

She feels as though something has shattered within her, and the tears begin again, even as she leans forward and gives in to the urge she has been fighting for days upon days. She splays kisses across the breadth of his face, feels the length and contour of each scar press intimately against her lips, and he stiffens at first, angered at her daring. She knows he is very possessive of the scars themselves, but she has wanted to do this for so long. He relaxes finally as she lavishes attention upon them, awed and worshipful, and she moans softly as she is allowed to dip her tongue into the hollow of his left cheek. He closes his eyes, a noise like purring rumbling in his chest and she turns her attention to the other, tongue curling around the curve at the top, following the arc of it until she reaches his lips, slipping her tongue right between them.

He laughs into her mouth and goes still, she whines but he will not kiss her back, and Harley must be content to work his mouth for herself.

"What do you want me to do?" she is gasping as she pulls back, mascara has long ago melted down her cheeks with tears and perspiration but he looks so unruffled, so calm, and, as she swings a leg over his thighs and splays her hands over his chest, his heart has barely picked up speed at all, but he smiles finally, tugging her forward, and his hands are between her legs again, fingers hooking around the thin material of her underwear and dragging it aside. The command is implicit in his expression, and her cheeks go red again even as her fingers do not fumble as they tug down the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips to aid her and the chair groans as he presses back against it, but it is obvious he has no trouble lifting her weight as well and she flushes further at the knowledge of the power his hands contain, what he could do if he turned them against her. She grits her teeth together as she moans helplessly and she sees only a flash of him but she could stare for hours if only he would let her, but his other hand is tugging her forward and down and she obeys, breath catching in her lungs as he enters her abused flesh for the first, blissful time and—

The doorknob turns, clicks as the lock catches.

"You have got to be kidding me," Harley hisses.

There is a pause, then a heavy knock at the door.

OOO

Chapter End Notes:

The medical terms were all retrieved from Wikipedia.


	16. Interlude 3: Descent

"I can't believe this," she whispers, before the reality of the situation finally strikes.

Panic suffuses her vision.

"Ju-just a minute!" she stutters, and her voice sounds tiny and panicked like the scream of a rabbit, she thinks, and it is only the feeling of his hands on her face again (gentle this time, don't have to be firm, she knows he can be, it says) that drag her out of the rapid spiral of terror.

"Shh," he whispers, though she hasn't made a sound. She feels like whimpering as she loses him again (so short a time, it could never be long enough, she's convinced of that) and suddenly his hands are working in reverse, tugging up cloth and closing the buttons still left to close. "This isn't going to do," he says, voice even and quiet.

How could he be so calm?

"My jacket's on the chair," she answers, and he smiles while she gapes, stunned at how easily she is tugged along, the subterfuge becoming second nature. What is he, she thinks, frozen in fascination, this thing, this chameleon creature? She wants nothing more than the taste of his mouth, and she could almost forget the hurry (almost) but he kisses her back and oh, damn him for waiting this long when she must pull away but, oh, oh my…

He follows her to her feet, arm tight around her lower back and holding her close and he's laughing into her mouth even while she's dizzy with the nearness of him. He's crazy, she thinks, oh god, I've never had so much fun, I could lose my job, this is terrible, this is wonderful! She tugs at her skirt and he releases her long enough to right his own clothing, tugging up his pants, though he doesn't let her go, not her mouth, even as he backs up and tugs her forward. He opens the door, the closet door of all things, she thinks, and she growls in exasperation even as he laughs into her mouth again, infinitely amused.

"You've got to be quiet," she whispers, and shoves him, laughing and stumbling into old coats, but his hands drag her in with him and she squeaks as they wander into unfamiliar places as though they're _supposed_ to be there, and she thinks she rather likes it...

"Don't forget the jacket, pet," he whispers to her and she snaps at his lips. "Ah, bad girl."

"Infuriating," she mutters, and shuts the closet door, darting to her desk and dragging her jacket on, buttoning it shut. There is a small hand mirror in her drawer; she tugs it out quickly and sets it on her desk. Makeup wipes, god she hated going without her makeup, but her face was a mess! Mouth all a smear and the mascara and liner had bled into dark circles all around her eyes, just terrible! It would take… just… another minute, there, she didn't look so bad, just bare, she hated bare. The bun would have to go, it was already in tatters. She pulls it down and combs it through with her fingers. Her eyes are red, and she knows what she looks like. She looks young and vulnerable and there is too much chest showing at the collar of her jacket, but she can use this to her advantage. She's done it before…

She hates playing this part, but it is a part that she is familiar with.

She rushes to the door finally, trying to widen her eyes and look innocent of all wrongdoing, like she was indulging in nothing guiltier than a crying jag, a silly, womanly breakdown.

"I'm so sorry," she says, as she opens the door, and at first does not meet his eyes, as though she is embarrassed to. When she does it is tentative, flickering, and she takes in the sight of pale hair and eyes.

"I hope I'm not… interrupting." He seems polite almost to the point of contrivance, prep school fodder, she thinks, voice cultured and ultimately lackluster. She gives a discreet sniff, as though it must be done but she hates to do it in front of him, and so far he does not seem suspicious. That's good.

"I hope that you'll forgive me… I've received some upsetting news regarding a family member."

"I could come back later."

"No, that would be impolite of me. I can't let my emotions get the better of me."

There is a rustle, a quiet chuffing strangely like muffled laughter, a thump, and he blinks, glancing toward the closet.

"What was that?"

Her face is perfectly impassive.

"I didn't hear anything."

"Maybe from next door or something."

"The wall's are a little thin," she agrees quietly. "What can I do to help you?"

"I'm guessing you're Dr. Quinzel, right?"

She nods.

"Well, then, I'm at the right place. The Lieutenant-Colonel sent me here… I just arrived."

She holds in the sigh. Another new patient. She gives him a cursory glance, no visible injuries. If he was unfit for service due to mental illness, why had he not simply been discharged? She doesn't have time to find out.

"I'm sorry…" she trails off meaningfully.

"Oh… My name's Whitney Court.. uh… Corporal Court, I mean, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."

She really shouldn't be so short with him, but he'd come at such an inconvenient time...

"I'm sorry, Corporal, but I was just getting ready to go to lunch."

"Yes, ma'am, I was afraid I wouldn't catch you actually. "

"Well, you did," she does not have to feign the exhaustion in her voice. "Go visit the nurse's station at the end of the hallway, they'll tell you when I have an available appointment."

"Yes ma'am," he nods, and turns on his heel to leave.

The click of the latch closing is soon followed by another opening, and suddenly she is taken by a whirlwind of thin, strong arms and quiet laughter.

"What is wrong with you!? You're going to get me fired," she hisses, stumbling in the manic embrace, but she can't help the giggle that is torn from her throat in return, though he catches it with his mouth a moment later.

"Can't do that," he says when he finally lets her breathe. This close, his eyes glitter when he smiles, she's certain it's more than just her imagination, and she wonders what has taken her so long to allow herself to do this… He had been right about this all along, hadn't he?

"Good. Do you finally realize that I'm only trying to help you?"

"Oh, I've always known that, darling." She loves the feeling of his hands in her hair, she thinks, stroking and combing, maybe even pulling a little bit… he smiles as though he knows exactly where her thoughts are going, and she blushes furiously. "But I've given you a _reason_ to help me, now haven't I?"

Oh, had he ever, she thinks, and laughs, and her shoulders are trembling as she raises a hand. She wants him, she thinks, wants him forever, wants him always, she could go a lifetime and never tire of his face.

She reaches for his lips and he nips at her fingertips while her own jaw chatters, but his arms are so steady and still and strong around her as he finally kisses one.

"You've got to get me out of here, Harley."


	17. Chapter 12: Reflection

She has never been more relieved in her life to finally walk through her front door. It was easier in the beginning, but as the day went on things became much more difficult. Bruises began to flower upon her pale skin: the shape of fingers around her wrists, half-moons of dried blood, the shadow of fingers on her jaw. The injuries his mouth had left behind, the bruises on her ribs, they remained thankfully beneath her clothing, but by the time the clock finally rolled around to 5 PM, she was certain that people were beginning to be suspicious and she fled the building without a single look back.

The heat of her shower pulls more blood to the surface and as she stands before the mirror now she is transfixed. When she had woken this Monday morning, she had no inkling of the way the day was going to go. There is no going back now, is there? She has stood upon the edge of the precipice and she has made her choice. She fell, didn't she?

She tries to think whether the decision was foolish or well-thought out, whether it was sudden or simply a long, slow, secret time in coming. She wraps her fingers lightly around her wrist, watching as the slender digits do not cover the whole of the bruises. He makes her feel small and delicate; when she is around him she feels self-destructive, a tiny porcelain ballerina flung from the top shelf of her own volition and shattered upon the ground, smiling all the while.

She closes her eyes and relives the moments that they have had together, those few swift moments. They weren't enough. She wants more. She wants hours to explore every dip and hollow of his body, wants to know what every exposed inch of his form tastes like within her mouth, and yes, yes, she wants _that_, too. She wants to pull him inside, feel the rhythm of his pounding pulse against her tongue, she wants to hear him moan, she wants to make him shatter the way she did, torn apart and screaming, and she wants to swallow every drop when he does.

There is still distance between them, he doesn't love her now, but he will, oh he will, she'll make sure of that. She will claw her way to the very heart of him, until she is deep within him, in his blood and his skin, his bone and his breath, until he could never dream of a second without her, until he will cry and scream and beg for her the way she wants to beg for him. He needs someone to take care of him, she thinks, his mind is occupied by far more important things, she will think of the small things for him, the things that are beneath his notice; she will become indispensable, as deeply a part of him as… as the scars on his face.

She thinks of how they felt beneath her tongue, how the corners of his mouth taste salty as though the flesh there is still raw. She imagines him bleeding, and imagines drinking that in, too. She wants all of him, all of him always… yes, yes, she has to get him out. She will live, her heart will continue beating and she will continue breathing without him, but she does not _want_ to. Destined, he had said, and he was right, he was always right! Why hadn't she listened to him before? Those few moments could have been hours, perhaps she might have already had a _hold_ upon his heart by now. She has wasted time, it makes her actions now all the more important.

When they leave, they must leave together. They will have to flee the city. She will be breaking more than one rule, more than one law by assisting him in this. If she is to help him… if she is to help him, it will mean a complete change. She knows that. She will have to leave with him; she will be in as much trouble as he will, perhaps more. Fraternizing with a superior officer, disobeying a direct order, going UA, oh, that only just showed the tip of the iceberg, didn't it? It was… it was _treason_, what she was planning.

If she does this… it will mean a new life. A new life together. Is she ready to do this? She has known him only a few months, spoken with him only a few weeks… is she ready to give up everything for this man? Could she really become a fugitive, a… a criminal? She has imagined what life at his side will be like (pure bliss) but what would life be without him? She thinks very hard on that, holds the image in her mind, sees herself growing older, earning further credentials the way she always imagined, earning the respect and the renown that she deserves. The images seem flat, empty, devoid of life. She sees the future through a haze of misery, a life _without_ life, gray and empty, no love and no laughter. How could she ever feel for another the way she feels for him? How could anyone deserve her love and devotion _more_ than him?

There was no getting around it… the decision had been made for her, hadn't it? Long ago. He had already seen and understood what she was only beginning to reveal, to admit to herself. She had felt the pull between them but he, oh, he was the one that _knew_ what it meant, what it was meant to grow into. There is no going back, not now.

She is sure of that, and as the sun finally begins to sink past the horizon, the day drawing to a close, she tries desperately to think of something else. For hours her mind cannot focus on a single thing (save him), spinning ceaselessly. It has been hours since she has seen his face, hours since she has touched him. She gives in to the distraction and soothes herself by imagining a day when she will be at his side always, when she will never again sleep alone. It fills her with warmth until it bubbles up in peals of ecstatic laughter and she gives in again, leaping and dancing about the room in glee. If only she can last until that day.

She takes another sip of wine, feeling pleased, fuzzy, content; she cups her face in her hands and feels the tenderness of the bruises against her palms. Oh, she is in love! What a blissful, happy day! Oh, if only she could look upon that face again. It was the face of a god, the face of a… of a _king_, the face of an _angel_. To look upon him, to touch him, it was an honor, a privilege, one he had bestowed upon so few, and now her alone and she feels treasured. He will take the shattered pieces of the figurine, and he will reform them, make them into something better than the first, better because it was made by his hands, she can feel that, feel it in her bones. She clutches her hands to her heart and spins in drunken, dizzy circles. If she could only see him!

She stops in her tracks, face frozen open-mouthed as she comes to the realization. The photo albums! She need only look there to satisfy her craving for him, doesn't she?

She nearly trips in her haste to leave the living room; she weaves her way to her bedroom and scatters rings, bracelets, necklaces across the top of her bureau, tossing them aside thoughtlessly as she digs to the bottom of her jewelry box.

"Ahah!" she says when she discovers her target. On the top shelf of her closet, there is a fireproof safe where she keeps all of her important papers. The apartment was built with taller people in mind: she could never reach it without retrieving a stool to stand upon. She always felt like a little girl rummaging around in her Daddy's closet when she looked in here, and she giggles quietly now as she inserts the key and turns the lock. She shoves the container of files to the side and reaches into the very back of the safe where the photo albums are stacked, one atop the other.

She grabs each one and tosses it carefully onto her bed. She locks the safe, hops down from the ottoman, shoving it aside and closing the door. The key she stashes again in the bottom of her jewelry box, piling her things haphazardly atop it (she will sort through them in the morning). As she crawls onto the center of her bed, she knows which album she will look into tonight. The last, the fourth. There are pictures inside that tell a story, moments of great change and happening, but those are not her favorites. There are others, ones less polished, more spontaneous. What they lack in composition, they make up for in captured life.

These are the tiny moments that she will now treasure: parts of him that will never exist again, she thinks. There are pieces of the puzzle that are lost forever, shattered and irretrievable: to give his heart, his love, only to have that person taken away from him again. They were afraid of him, thought of him as a monster, something inhuman, but how could a monster love? Monsters did not crave companionship and what had he told her?

"How strange to all your life be told that you are different, abnormal, subhuman… only to one day find yourself surrounded by your own kind."

Monsters did not remember with that small, sad smile the things he would never again experience; monsters did not miss the things that had once been his alone, the things that had been taken from him. What a sad, solitary life he has led. Everyone he had ever loved had left him in the end; death had taken them in one form or another. All of his life he had been separated, ridiculed, feared, how could they have expected him to turn out any differently? How could he be expected to value human life when humans had never even demonstrated themselves worthy of those lives?

She opens the album cover slowly, handling it with the utmost care. She flips slowly through the pages and finds the image that she wants. The Captain is seated upon a bed. He is the only one in the photo. There is a slight bluish cast to his face, the reflection of a TV screen. In his hands is a black controller, he is staring at it in obvious bewilderment. She closes her eyes, imagines herself riffling through files in her mind. Again she finds the one that she wants. Her eyes open again.

She imagines the picture darkening, gaining depth, she watches the still form come to life in her mind, and soon she hears a voice that is made for laughter, just as Jack said it had been.

OOO

"You're trying to tell me you've never seen a video game system before? How is that even possible? I mean… nothing? Not a Nintendo, not even an Atari?"

The brunette received only a blank expression in return.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Jack shrugged finally, giving the buttons a few cursory taps.

"We got by," he said quietly, "Not a whole lot of room for… extras," he finished disdainfully, and Benny rolled his eyes.

"Well, come on, what's your excuse now? Your pockets ain't empty, and you're not blowing your pay on pussy, so where's it goin'?"

Jack laughed, shrugged again.

"I don't… buy anything… I mean… what would I buy? I'm a simple guy. They give me everything I need, don't they?"

"A man does not live by uniforms alone! Where in the hell are your _toys_? What do you _do_ with all your money?"

"Nothing… It's bound up here and there… savings accounts… CD's… I don't have any real use for it."

Benny shook his head, mystified.

"Yanno, when we get home? That first round of drinks? That'll be your round, money bags."

"Whatever you say, blue eyes…"

OOO

The picture goes still again and she is surprised to find tears in her eyes. He had loved him dearly, she can tell, and didn't that alone prove them wrong? How could a monster inspire such devotion, such adoration in others?

She knows him now, she feels as though all his life has been lived and recorded inside of her. She turns the page and gazes upon them playing, bodies knotted into a ball, wallowing, wrestling in the midst of a cloud of dust. It ends with Ben on top ("Guess they forgot to tell you I won State.") only to have his victory rewarded with a forehead to the face. The next photo has him grinning and bloody, and she thinks of how they belonged together, how different his world might have been if he had survived, if they had lived to see each other home.

Harley wipes her eyes, and promises to herself that he will never again need to know the loss of a loved one. _He_ is gone, but she is here now, she will take care of him. She traces a fingernail along the photo again and wonders if he is looking down, if he still watches his beloved, if he approves of her, if he knows that she will cherish every moment in his presence, every moment she spends in his arms.

"I love you," she says to no one, and blushes furiously. She hugs the album to her chest and lets her eyes slip shut again. How could they not all know? How could they not recognize his greatness? His genius? Eccentric, yes, perhaps a bit antisocial, but weren't all of the great minds just so? Did not the lion look down upon the mouse? They hated him for being different. He was different because he was _better_. Why was she the only one to see that? He would never again have to live in a world that did not appreciate his brilliance: she is here now, all that will change.

Her eyes snap open.

Why should she have to search to find his face? These belonged to her now… why, she could do anything she wanted with them!

Her eyes widen, she licks her lips expectantly, she lowers the book suddenly and her fingers fly through the pages, heading to the front of the album again. There, there it is.

He looks so very young, so strong. She knows that he is barely 20, at the peak of his physical condition, only a few days before his ceremony. She knows there is nothing special about this picture, that every graduating cadet has one, but she stares at it with awe, feels so honored to possess it. She parts the plastic film carefully, slowly separating the picture from the page's glue.

She blushes again, looks around though there is no one to see her. She feels silly, like some love struck-teenager, and later she will have to hide it so no one will see but here, now, alone, she can press it to her heart and pretend it is him in her arms instead. Oh, how she wants him near again, how she wants to feel his chest rise and fall against hers, to taste his breath within her mouth.

She dreams of a day when she will be able to wake beside him, a night when she can reach into the darkness and let her hands wander as they please. She shivers in pleasure, closing her eyes, opening them again, and she pulls the picture away, gazing upon the strong jaw, the smooth unlined face. The ordeal he has endured has placed years upon his face, she can see that now: furrows in his brow, lines deep around his eyes and mouth.

Someone so young should not be so old, she thinks, and touches the picture as though she can smooth away the future lines with her fingertips. She wants to take them away forever, to remove the creases of sorrow, of defeat, of agonies both present and past, and replace them all with lines of laughter. She wants to soothe the tension from his shoulders, bring them up so that she can see him stand tall and proud and straight again.

Her knees feel weak, her fingertips tingle, and she stares at him hungrily. This portrait must stay where she can see it, where he will never be far from her thoughts, where she can stop and look upon him whenever she wants, until she can replace it with the real thing.

Her eyes stop again on her bureau. Yes, the mirror. There is a small space between the frame and the glass, she put a postcard there once; she will place the portrait there now. She slips the bottom edge in carefully, prepares to slide it to the side. The flat white backing shines in the mirror and what she sees there stops her dead in her tracks. Reflected back to her in a blue, hurried, scrawling, familiar hand are the letters: .regnad ni ydaerla era uoy ,siht gnidaer era uoy fI .trohs si emit ruO

Our time is short. If you are reading this, you are already in danger.


	18. Chapter 13: Discovery

She turned the photo slowly in her hands.

No, facing her, the letters running all the right way, it still said the same thing. Her cheeks felt very hot, and a moment later she paused to consider the absurdity of being embarrassed in being caught when the note said she was in _danger_. But… but he _knew_, knew she was going to take the photo, knew how she felt; what else did he know? Why was he always two steps ahead of her?

She rushed back to the bed. Her fingers curled in toward the palm, knuckles brushed against her bottom lip: she bit them together, gritted teeth through flesh and darted her hand forward to peel back the next piece of film. Under the first photo, nothing, the second, the third. Was it only an anomaly? Fourth, fifth, sixth, she pressed them down to the glue again, turned another page, seventh, eighth, _there_! She read it through, read it again. No, that didn't make any sense to her. The tenth photo, more of the same. Garbled letters and numbers. What did it all mean?

She spends the better part of two hours pulling certain photos from the albums. The back of each one has been written upon. She cannot understand any of it. She can find no discernible pattern yet but placed one beside the next, one atop the next on her floor, they cover an area nearly the size of a queen bed.

She spends the better part of the night filling a 1 inch notebook with sheaves of paper lined with neat rows of letters, copied diligently. She falls into bed at 5 am, is 25 minutes late for her 8 am Tuesday appointment (certainly not the Captain), and does not have a chance to find the man she wants until shortly after noon. It is not difficult to find him, she need only think logically about the time. He is near the cafeteria.

"Lieutenant," he says, long before she rounds his shoulder into his line of sight. She stops.

"How did you know it was me?"

"Shoes click. Doc Watson, she wears square heels, they tap. Clogs just kind of shuffle, sometimes squeak. Patient's slippers don't make much sound at all. Men's dress shoes got their own tap, boots have their own weight. Thin high heels, they click… and there's only one pair of shoes in this hospital sound like that."

"You're very observant," she says quietly.

"Old habits die hard," he says, with a little laugh.

"I might be able to put them to good use."

That stops him watching through the glass in the cafeteria doors.

"What?"

"Just how good at puzzles are you, Wilhelm?"

OOO

Twenty five minutes later and she is waiting nervously at the steps in the rear courtyard of the hospital. The clouds are low and thick today; the summer air is stirred by a faint breeze near to the ground, hinting at the chill and the storm to come. The air is warm now, and clammy, like an old fever. She has a yellow envelope clutched in her hand, the notebook inside of that, and she thinks it reminiscent of the tint in the clouds. A perfect arc of lightning flashes in the distance. The thunder takes 27 seconds. She is waiting for the man she will deliver the envelope to, and does not even want to ponder what would happen if it should fall into the wrong hands. The fact is she has no idea what is contained within the pages and pages of code. Whether it is important, or trivial, or maybe it's just one big elaborate joke, she doesn't know, but what she does know is the meaning of the message the Captain had written to her in blue ballpoint pen, a pen she thought she had misplaced quite casually. She hadn't thought to worry about it then, hadn't known what she knew now: that in his hands _anything_ became a weapon. How many times had he had the opportunity to kill her and had not? Did that mean what she wanted it to? Was he really coming to care for her?

But no, what the message _meant_? That meant she was in danger the instant she understood what she was carrying. She had been safe until that moment, but he knew the moment would come eventually. They might still serve a purpose… the words echo through her mind. She had thought, at the time, his purpose had been to satisfy her curiosity, to allow her to gain a new level of understanding in him, but no… the photos held something, some secret. He could have destroyed the albums, kept the secret forever, but he had left it in her hands, left it in her hands to figure it out. He had not said as much, but perhaps he could not. She would not put it past the Army to be listening in. Majors sometimes had secrets, Colonels certainly, General's definitely, but Captain's, Lieutenant's? No, they weren't so privileged as to possess secrets. But that would mean they had already overheard everything that had occurred, more than enough for a court marshal… but maybe they weren't waiting for that.

And maybe there had been further motivation in their choice of her for his case? Did they hope that he might build some sort of trust for her, that just such an intimacy might develop between them, that he would confide in her? Had they both played right into their hands? Or had they played into his? Had _she?_

And who exactly were _they_? Someone much higher up the chain of command than the both of them that was for sure.

Her mind is whirling: she imagines being on a merry-go-round spun much too quickly, and the envelope feels cool against her heated cheek. Calm down. Think, Harley, _think_.

There were at least two people who knew the Captain had given her that box. Would either have any reason to remember it? To report it? Did either have any inkling as to what the box contained? Obviously the Sergeant in Iraq knew what had been packed inside, but if they had discovered what lay behind the photos, they would never have sent it to him in the first place. Codes were codes, someone could always crack them, there were guys who did nothing but. Just because she had no idea what she was looking at did not mean they would have the same problem.

And _she_ had a very big problem on her hands. If the note was true, if she were in trouble now, it was with the sort of people you did not want to be in trouble with, the sort of people you didn't want to have as enemies; the sort you did not know were even there until you were treated to the sound of your own neck breaking and then nothing at all, people like the Captain himself. He was perpetually wary, distrustful, even a little paranoid she would venture, but that had been bred into him through years of abuse in his early life, she knew: he was not easily surprised, would not willingly allow himself to be cornered. To have been ambushed, to have been bested physically by someone, that was not the sort of person she wanted to be faced with.

Lightning stabs to the left, the birds in the park are quiet, and the thunder takes 23 seconds. Harley thinks it fitting when she hears the first tap of his own dress shoes the second after the crack of the thunder splits the air. The lake is a sheet of glass: she watches it splinter as the distant lightning dances in its reflection. She looks back to him as he stops beside her.

"Why did you need to talk to me all the way out here?"

"Because I didn't want anyone overhearing. I need to ask another favor of you, just like the one I asked before. Have it your way: I want you to keep your mouth shut, but I need your help." She offers him the envelope. He accepts and glances inside of it discreetly, before tucking it under his arm casually. He could have been couriering a letter for anyone. Doctors weren't afraid to make nuisances of themselves: most had egos inflated enough to believe that all of their letters were _important_ letters. She nods, satisfied.

"What am I looking at?"

"I don't know."

He smirks. "Good answer."

"But it's an honest answer. That's what I need you to figure out. Maybe you can tell me."

"You said something about puzzles…"

"It's in code. Whatever it is."

"Why not just take this to your guys, you got plenty of them crypto-types stuffed back in their little cubicles waiting for something to do, right?" The corner of his mouth twitches.

"You already know the answer to that," she says, simply.

"You can't. So you're telling me that you want me to once again knowingly conceal information from the Lieutenant-Colonel, but not only that, you want me to work and break a code in order to read a document that neither of us should probably even have in our possession?"

It seems a bleak prospect. She wrinkles her nose slightly and nods.

"That's what I'm telling you."

"Well," he says after a moment and a musing look, "nothing like courting unemployment and a prison sentence in the same week."

"You should be alright," Harley says, seriously, "I hear they love cops in prison…"

"Sure you didn't miss the sarcasm in that statement?"

"No, no sarcasm. You just have to change your interpretation of the word love." She arches her eyebrows.

"Cute."

"I try. Are you going to help me or not?"

"To the point. Yeah, I will. You're gonna owe me."

"Is that a threat? You didn't sell me out the first time.."

"No threat."

"So what do I owe you?"

"Haven't decided yet. You'll know when I do."

OOO

He was going to help her. As much as that was what she wanted, she wasn't entirely certain how to feel about it. He was a little too friendly. Nothing inappropriate, perfectly above bar, but he had a love of subtext, she was aware of that, and she was reading an awful lot into his.

It was five minutes after one… she was going to be slightly late to her next appointment. She was really going to have to start tightening up. No need to draw the Colonel's attention her way, especially not now.

If she remembered correctly… she did. He was waiting for her in her office. She stared at him for a very long moment, unable to believe what she was seeing. The nerve.

"Corporal Court. I see you've made yourself comfortable. Where did you get that?"

He was stretched out in her chair, feet propped up on her desk, a small paring knife carving into an apple, one probably as stolen as the other. The first spatters of rain hit the glass behind his head.

"If you look real close, Doctor, I think you'll find that young Corporal Court was KIA'd about a year ago in Haditha. You'll address me as Colonel, and you won't know my name, because you won't need to. You might think I look a little young, but I think you'll also find I'm very good at what I do. You're a little rude, Dr. Quinzel, but I'm going to ask nicely. Are you going to cooperate, or am I going to have to make you an example for him?"

She kept her face still. Her body was stiller.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't really want to play that game, do you?"

"What do you want from me?"

"You're going to answer some questions for me. In absence of that, you're going to carry on as though nothing is different and you're going to get the answers from him, and then you're going to pass them onto me."

"And if I don't?"

"Let's just say… you'll gain a new, _intimate_ understanding of his case. Do I make myself clear?"

She grimaced.

"Crystal."


	19. Chapter 14: Retreat

"See," he said quietly. "I knew you were smart. They're wrong about us blondes." He gave an indicatory tug upon his forelock, the only part of his hair that was not closely shaved, flashing a boyish smile. Physically he was attractive. His face was proportionate, body strong and fit, hair an unusually pale shade of blonde, eyes a paler gray. It was the eyes that made him ugly, Harley thought, eyes like mirrors. There was nothing inside those eyes… nothing human, anyway. Even Jack at his worst had _always_ been human. "I know what he's capable of, so I'm prepared not to let this whole little incident be held against you."

She shook her head.

"It's like a giant pissing contest. See who can out think who, out manipulate who. Aren't you afraid he'll recognize you and ruin your game?"

He was the one to shake his head this time, closing his eyes briefly. Harley felt a start as though he had slapped her. He'd made it clear he didn't find her a threat in one single gesture.

"This is no game, Doctor. He won't recognize me, because he's never met me. You… you don't think I was the one who did _that_ to him? Oh, no, no, see… if it had been me they sent, neither one of us would having this conversation."

She stared at him silently.

"When you want to amputate a busted leg, you don't call an accountant. When you want the _truth_ forced out of someone, you don't call in a hostage negotiator. No, you should pick someone with a real love… a real talent… a real appreciation for the art. Someone who's got experience."

"Someone like you?" she spat, lip curling in disgust.

"Precisely. I was otherwise detained at the time. He failed in his task, failed to break him… but I won't Miss Quinzel, I can assure you of that."

Some small part of her bristled at his arrogance. This was the only part of her that was clear. The rest of her was a muddled mess of terror and frustration and rage and she had no idea where most of the emotions were directed. She was finding it increasingly difficult to focus. God, had she taken her medication this morning? She couldn't remember… she'd been so tired.

"You think… that he doesn't know you people are coming for him?"

"I don't care what he knows," he tilted his head slightly. "You forget, Lieutenant, you _are_ one of us people, and the sooner you remember that, the better for you. You are a soldier in the US Army, Doctor, you are a part of something much larger. The world is changing, Miss Quinzel, and there will be no room for dissenters in that new world, no room for people like him. He's developed quite a reputation over the years. He never was particularly good at following orders, and do you know what would happen if we all stopped following our orders? The world would dissolve into _anarchy_ and _chaos_… and that will never happen, Doctor. Not while I'm here."

He stared at her very plainly, eyebrows raised.

"He's fighting a losing battle. He's raising his colors even as his ship is sinking, and he's going to drag you down with him. And why? For what reason? Your career has been stellar from the very beginning, Quinzel, you could go on to great things. Why, there's an opening in Psy-Op's, I hear, and I have it for fact you've already applied to the division once before. It would be straight to Washington with you… the fifth ring of the Pentagon… The perfect place for someone with your sort of expertise, don't you think?"

"Trying to bribe me with a pay raise?" she sneered. If only her hands would stop shaking, maybe she could actually look threatening…

"Oh, bribe is such an ugly word. I'm only pointing out your potential. Don't forget it. I could send you straight to the top, Lieutenant, or I could bury you so deep the worms won't even find you. Don't forget that either. The Elite is making history, Doctor. We're gaining power like never before. Soon, you will be faced with a choice. You will have to choose where your alliances lie. You will have to make a decision. You can be a part of history, or you can simply… _be_ history. The choice is entirely yours. You could have such a bright future ahead of you, Miss Quinzel. Don't make me waste that."

She remained silent for a long time.

"What are you going to do with him?

"That particular order was given long ago, and not by me: TEP, Lieutenant."

"Terminate with Extreme Prejudice," she whispered. They were going to kill him. They were going to use her to do it along the way.

God… she really was in over her head.

"You think about what I've said, Doctor. I'm glad we could have this little talk, you know. I'm in a better mood already."

The soles of his hospital slippers slapped against the off-white tile of her floor as he pulled his feet off of her desk. She shrank into the corner as he passed. Thirty seconds later, the door latched shut and she found herself alone again; the room was silent beyond the patter of raindrops against the glass. As she listened, the speed increased to a drumming, her head filling with white noise, her eyes stinging. She sank slowly to the floor and pulled her knees tight to her chest.

The world disappeared beneath a wall of water.

OOO

At 2:10 there was a knock at the door. The tears stopped long ago, and her eyes now felt swollen and dry. She wiped carefully at her eyes with the heel of each hand after she pushed her glasses onto her head: her skin felt taut and gritty. A faint headache throbbed behind her eyes, and her hips were beginning to tingle where the circulation had slowed in her legs. She raised herself slowly to her feet, teetering for a moment on her heels, ankles bowing before she regained her balance. She felt ancient, exhausted, and she limped slowly to the door. 2 PM on a Tuesday, who could it be? If only she hadn't snapped at that nurse, maybe she wouldn't feel so embarrassed about checking her schedule more often. She tried to imagine today's page from her day planner, but was shocked to find she could not find a memory corresponding to the copying of this week's schedule at all. Had she… really forgotten? But… she was always so meticulous, so careful… certainly she had been focused on other things but… No, only one thing. Only him. Had he really consumed her so much?

Her makeup was smeared again, she imagined, but she didn't have time to adjust it, just pulled her glasses from her head and pushed them onto her nose before she opened the door and peered around it. It was a familiar face. She had warm brown eyes, friendly, if a bit weary. Her hair didn't have quite the same hue as her eyes, it was a typical mousey brown, cropped short but grown long recently, falling midway down her forehead. She had an olive complexion, and a slender, fit body. Her arms, what showed beneath the cap sleeves of the smock, were sharply-defined, muscular, but within the wide legs of her hospital pants, her legs seemed shapeless, disproportionately small. All of her weight was balanced on the right side, a cane in that same hand.

"Down to a cane already?"

"Physical therapist says I'm making real progress," the young woman answered, in return. "I'll be able to go home soon…"

There was a long silence between them.

"Y'alright, doc?"

"It's been a bad day, Charlotte." Harley stepped out of the way and opened the door, waiting behind it until her patient had hobbled over to the patient's chair and taken a seat, still heavily she noticed. She shut it, mentally cursing herself for taking a paranoid glance down either end of her hall before doing so.

"I know all about those, doc." Charlotte said, when Harley finally took her seat. She had been a medi-vac helicopter pilot in Iraq for only one day. Through no fault of her own, the bird had gone down. Catastrophic engine failure. A one in a million accident. She'd lost both her legs from just above the knee in the crash, and suffered third degree burns over thirty-seven percent of what remained of them, and her torso. ("Spared me my face," she quipped. "Never had to use the damn thing 'till now.")

"How are the dream's coming?"

Turner bit her lips together for a moment, before she sighed and shrugged, resigned to being honest, it seemed.

"I still wake up on fire once in a while… and sometimes, my calves will cramp up. It'll wake me up out of a dead sleep, and I'll try to grab them, try and rub the cramp out, yanno? And then… it takes me a while to remember why there's nothing there. I'm all panicked for a long time, just… lost in the dark, and hurting." She shook her head for a long moment "Never thought it was gonna be like this for me. Logically, I knew it could happen, I had taken that into account, figured the odds were good enough I could pull it out, make it home safe… I've always been lucky… Just not this time. This time, I was right in the other direction, unlucky to the nth degree."

"The war affects us all. Even those of us at home know the changes it's made. We're not the ones who are broken, but we're trying to pick up the pieces. It's hard in a way. There is a certain amount of separation between those who have actively served, and those who have not, a disdain if you will. It makes our job just as hard as yours."

Turner nodded slowly, lips quirking somewhere between blank and frowning.

"I guess so… if you put it like that. Everybody's got a stick shoved up their ass, one way or the other. Dorado, he thinks he's such a damned saint just cause he hit an IED. Tells me they shouldn't be spending so much money on accidents, should be focused on people who actually did the fighting. I tell him if he was so fucking smart, he would have seen the damn thing before he drove over top of it."

"I'm not sure… that's the way to look at it. One injury does not surpass another, regardless of how it happened."

"Everybody's got pride, Doc… we prided ourselves on our bodies, our strength, and now that's been taken away from us. Can't help if we're a little illogical about the whole thing, right?"

"Yes, but the stresses of injury should not be a free pass to bad behavior."

"Yeah, like that long due crack-down on J-Boy, right? That _pass_ seems pretty free these days."

For the second time today, she felt as though she'd been slapped across the face. She jerked back. "Excuse me?"

"Don't nobody gotta _say_ nothing, I know what's going on. Nunez and Nubby, they chatter amongst themselves, and you get snatches of that side of the equation. Seems Jack's real… frustrated, these days, real high-strung, they say. And you, you've been a little distraught yourself. Seems to me there's a little something going on there. Seems like your sleeves are real long, collars real high lately. Not covering up any marks, are we?" Her head pressed forward impudently.

Harley stiffened. "You are completely out of line, Turner."

"But I ain't the one on the way to a meeting with the JAG officers, neither. That new guy, the rich boy, he seems to think he walked in on something the other day. I overheard him talking to somebody not too long ago."

She froze. "You overhear a lot. Who was he talking to?"

She shook her head. "Dunno. He was on a cell phone. Point is, you got no grounds talking to me about bad fucking behavior."

OOO

It was only with a tremendous amount of self control that Harley was able to finish the rest of the session with Turner civilly. At times, she was certain she was almost trembling with suppressed rage, and there was the fear still, in the back of her mind, and now a new emotion, one of hurry as the Captain's message came to final clear realization within her mind.

Our time is short. Even as she was thinking this, they were coming for her. She must act quickly and decisively. A strategic retreat, she could almost imagine her father's voice, imagine the map spread out before her, his strong hands rearranging the figurines: retreat, then recoup from your new position.

She wasn't safe. First step was to change that.

OOO

At 5 o'clock, she spread a newspaper over her head and shoulders and sloshed her way the 100 yards to the bus stop at the head of the west parking lot. The newspaper became sodden within seconds, it seemed, and her shoes were going to be ruined, she resigned herself to that fact. The rain bounced off the pavement, onto her legs, dripping into her shoes and soaking the insoles. She squelched with each step and she reached the bus shelter a soaking, miserable mess.

"Jesus, lady, didn't you watch the news this morning?" The New Jersey accent was very possible the most annoying thing she had ever heard and Harley had the disconcerting thought that if she had ever wanted to commit a random, unfounded murder, now was the moment. She stared at the stranger icily, and he got the point, shrugging deeper into the comfort of his flannel lined rain coat and shifting away from her. She tossed the pile of wet paper to the concrete in disgust. She dropped onto the bench in a shivering heap and tried to ball up as small as she could to conserve her body heat. At the moment, it didn't feel as though she had all that much to conserve. She waited for what seemed like hours.

She looked down at her watch. She had to wipe the fog off of the face to see it clearly.

"5:35," she said out-loud. The bus was late. The bus was never late. If anything, it almost always came a little early, Harley had missed it enough times to learn that. She looked out into the gray as far as she could, some ninety feet if she squinted her eyes, didn't see any approaching head lights big enough to be a bus. She didn't see any approaching headlights at all. Only exiting.

At 5:45, she knew something was wrong. There was no way the bus could be this late. At 5:46, a large diesel engine stopped and opened a door, but it wasn't the vehicle she was expecting. There was a brief snatch of an Allman Brothers song before the stereo was turned down.

"You're gonna be waiting a while," a familiar voice shouted from the interior. "Radio says downtown is flooded. They've canceled all bus service. You need a ride?"

"I guess so," Harley shouted back gloomily, gathered her things, and squelched her way to the truck. "Thank you," she said, when he took her things, freeing her hands to assist her somewhat ungraceful clamber into the truck's cab. Who needed a truck this big, anyway? He spoke as she climbed inside.

"You know, when I was five years old, we had a mill right beside our house. Used to grind our own grain. It'd been there for almost a hundred years, been making flour for our family for generations. Up above it, there was a pond that fed the water wheel, and it had some of the biggest, prettiest catfishes you ever saw, and that's really saying something, 'cause mainly catfishes are the ugliest things God ever created." He stopped mid-way through and turned the defrost and heat on high. "But one day, I was going fishing in that pond, and I found a bag floating in it, starting to sink. Bag was squirming. So I waded out, grabbed it, brought it back to shore, and opened it. Inside the bag were five kittens and they were the scrawniest, wettest, most miserable little things I ever saw… But you, my friend, are the second." He reached into the back, and then offered her a towel as she finished seating herself and adjusting her belongings between her feet.

"What about him?" He shoved a thumb in the direction of New Jersey, and Harley sneered out the door before she slammed it shut. The action was immensely childish… it also felt really, really good.

"He's got a ride," she said as she turned back, a sweet smile once again plastered across her rain-stained visage as she delicately squeezed the water from her hair with the proffered towel.

Knauer shrugged, put the truck into gear and pulled off.


	20. Interlude 4: Pursuit

Author's Chapter Notes:

Unbeta'd as usual. Contains graphic language and possibly disturbing images.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to their various owners. All others belong to me.

She managed to squeeze a great portion of the moisture from her hair, and used the damp portions of the towel to do a cursory wipe of her melted face. She was beginning to wonder, these days, why she even bothered to wear makeup.

"What did you do with the kittens?" She asked off-handedly. He made a right turn onto Lakeview Circle.

"We kept them all. Plenty of mice wherever there's grain. Welcome place for a cat. Spite was all that was, throwing them in the pond like that. Could've just given them to us. I've no respect for a man that'll hurt an animal like that."

The rain beat a steady rhythm against the windshield, and she listened to the wipers thumping through arc after arc across the glass. With the roar of the heater and the warmth of the towel slung around her shoulders now, she began to feel heavy, very sleepy, and she began to be very much aware of how little rest she had gotten the night before. It wasn't long before things began to get curiously dark outside, and then suddenly she was awoken by a gentle shake. She started, for a moment unable to recall exactly where she was.

"Hate to wake you up, kid, but if I'm going to take you home, exactly where is home?"

"God, I fell asleep…" Harley muttered, reached up to move her glasses out of the way, sighed and rubbed at her face, cleared her throat and straightened up. "Where are we… where are we at right now?" Her voice cracked mid-way through.

"I just got off the ring road," he said, dismissively. She'd dozed off for only a few minutes, then.

"Alright. Go ahead and take a left up here at the light, stay in your right lane and just jump on 556."

"Like I'm going to the base?"

"Yeah, but you're gonna take the last exit before the main gate."

"I know where I'm headed then."

"Good." She barely succeeded in covering a yawn, and he laughed, glancing her way.

"You gonna fall asleep on me again? Back in the day, a guy was nice enough to give a girl a ride home, you made polite conversation with him even if you didn't like him but you modern girls… you always want something for nothing…"

"Gas, grass, or ass, nobody rides free?"

He grinned at her. She leaned back in the seat and lay back against the headrest.

"No, I think I'll try and stay conscious for a little while."

"How considerate of you. Regular southern bell, you are."

She laughed and glanced out the window.

"So, what, are you some kind of green-freak?"

"Huh?" There was nothing outside the window to hold her interest, just gray, rain-drenched streets. She looked back to him.

"No car?"

"Oh… no. I just don't feel like there's any use owning a car in a city like this."

"Except when the buses aren't running."

"Well, I could have hoofed it back into city limits and picked up the Metro at 123rd Street."

"If you didn't die of pneumonia on the way."

"Basically," she laughed.

He made a right turn and looked to her again.

"You're lucky I was running late today."

"Oh? What happened?"

He frowned softly. "Orderlies are short-handed today. Caruthers asked me to help him out in the morgue."

Harley's face twisted into a grimace. "Sounds like fun."

"Oh yeah," he said, shaking his head. "It was a real blast." He was quiet for a long time. "It's strange. Ain't nothing right with an old man being the one to put a young man on the slab. Seems like these kids just keep getting younger and younger. Eighteen doesn't seem to mean as much anymore. I remember the day I turned eighteen I thought I had the world by the ass and a downhill drag, and now? Now, here I am filling body bags with kids who ain't shaved more'n five times in their life, went off to war thinking it was all target practice and suntans, and all they get is a body full of bullets and a medal pinned to a chest that don't rise or fall no more. There's some poor Mama out there waiting to see their little boy home, and all they're gonna get is a pretty little speech about how he served his country well, and a folded up flag. There she is left wondering why his country didn't serve _him_ better than it did."

"It's hard, I know. I don't like seeing death anymore than the next person. But there will always be death. People forget that the end result of war is always going to be that someone is going to end up dead. Sometimes it's us, sometimes it's them, but either way, some mother somewhere is crying, every single day of the year."

"The old shouldn't have to bury the young." He said, with a final shake of his head.

Harley pursed her lips, brushed at a piece of lint on her skirt that wasn't really there at all. The rain beat harder on the windshield as they picked up speed, and merged smoothly onto the interstate.

"Parents shouldn't have to watch their children suffer in hunger and sickness, but they do, even in our very own country. It's just a fact of life. We live and breathe, and then we die. Some just do it quicker than others."

He sighed, shook his head briefly before he glanced her way again. "You've got a rather bleak view of the world, Lieutenant."

"I like to think of it as realism, Wilhelm, not pessimism." Outside the window, the sound-barrier walls gave way to barbed wire and chain link fencing as they drew closer to the base. "I struggle to maintain my faith in humanity. When I was young, I believed in the innate goodness of a person, but as I get older… I begin to wonder whether it's really goodness that thrives in the heart of each person, or whether it's something darker. People fight and kill for food, for land, in the name of money, of pride, out of a belief that they are better or stronger, smarter or more moral than someone else. People kill for fear, and lust, anger and jealousy, but how many people act out of love, compassion, understanding? How many people will do something that does not benefit them, simple because it's the right thing to do?"

"Not everyone's so bad," he said, and his expression was almost sad as he looked her way before staring straight ahead again. "If there's no good left in the world, then what's the point of fighting in the first place? If there's nothing left for us to fight for?"

She frowned deeply, shifted uncomfortably, and tucked one leg up beneath her.

"Because, Captain, war is an end unto itself. We fight simply to fight. We fight in order to know that we're alive: to stop a heart, and have yours beat all the harder for it. We kill to know that we're not dead ourselves. The dead can't fight back, but we still can, and we still do." She stared at her hands, saw warm brown eyes and a wicked smile instead.

_That must be how just how Jack feels,_ she thought, _how could I have ever feared him? I understand him so well…_

"I'm sorry," he shook his head, and it seemed almost an answer to her thoughts. "I just can't understand that."

"I'm not asking you to," she replied quietly. "But you wanted to know. Without war, there would be no reason for us to exist."

"The Army?"

"Any of the branches of the military. I'm a third-generation soldier… I enlisted the day I turned eighteen, I've been in for nine years. This is the only job I've ever had. The Army is my life."

_And now I'm thinking of leaving it…_

"Thought you could only go as high as Sergeant when you enlist?"

"I qualified for Officer's Training, after the fact. Military life is all I've ever known. At this point, I'd be useless in the civilian world. I'm institutionalized."

He snorted. "You sound like some old felon up for parole."

"I might as well be," she laughed. "I've been up for 'parole' twice now, went back in each time. I'm in for life. I wouldn't know how to do anything else."

_What will I do when I leave?_

"You need to always keep that in mind though. I spent twenty-five years on the force, and then I up and had to start all over again."

She looked to him fully. "What happened?"

"Well… about six years ago, we've got this… 'posse' in town."

_Six years_, she thought, _why is that familiar?_

"They knocked over three or four of those check-into-cash places. Real bunch of cowboys, fancied themselves outlaws. They were good in the beginning, we had no leads on them at all, but they got cocky, got bolder and bolder, got sloppy. We cornered them down on the west side, they took off up at I-15, tear-assing up the highway, putting plenty of people in danger, six or seven cop cars in hot pursuit. They're pushing the engine hard as it'll go, but we got a couple of Mustangs in our pack, and they can't keep ahead of them. Three cars come together, force them off the road. They… flipped five times, ended up in the middle of a soybean field out there near Buxton. One guy, in the backseat, he wasn't wearing his seatbelt. He was thrown from the vehicle, got crushed, dead on impact, you know.

"The other little guy, he busts his head on the steering wheel, and he's out like a light when we get to him, he's bleeding all over the place. But the third guy… the big guy… He's up and running when the car stops, and by the time we get out to them, he's long gone. Field was newly plowed, so he left tracks. Field buts up against Breedlove Swamp on two sides, a housing development on the other, and the tracks are leading into the swamp. We set up a perimeter, surround the area as best we can, and call in our K-9 units, and let 'em loose. Dogs are going crazy, apparently the guys hurt, bleeding pretty well, but they lose the scent in the swamps. Guy's smart, he's cutting across the water, trying to lose the dogs, and all but one of them is thrown off. One dog, named Lucifer, he gets the idea he still knows where the guy is headed, so they set off deeper into the swamp, three cops and the dog. The two that are with her, big, heavy, clumsy fucks, they get bogged down in the muck, but Lorelai, she just keeps going. The dog's getting louder, they're getting closer, and pretty soon they lose sight of her."

_Six years…_ "Lorelai was…" she trailed off, and he picked up the sentence as though she had never stopped.

"My wife," he nodded.

She shifted again, looked out the window. She was almost home.

"What happened then?"

"She… she shouldn't have been alone out there. She was this… tiny little thing. She had bones like a bird. I always felt like if I held her too tight she'd break to pieces in my arms. She should've had back-up more'n those worthless bastards she was with. They got loose, eventually, went to look for her. Couldn't hear no noise, no barking, no yelling, no gunshots. When they got to them, the dog was already dead… had blood all over his mouth, apparently he got the guy before he broke his neck but…. Lorelai was still alive. She was tough as nails that girl. She'd swallowed some of her own teeth, and she was… choking… on all the blood, drowning in it. He beat her to a pulp, broke every bone in her face. They said the only way they knew it was her for sure was her nameplate. She was completely unrecognizable, she couldn't open her eyes, couldn't breathe through her nose it was broken so bad, couldn't even talk.

"Her mouth was a mess, broken teeth, and her lips all torn up and swollen. Shock was setting in, but they couldn't move her, she was in too much pain, just screaming hysterically every time somebody touched her. They called in an ambulance crew, and they set out on foot to carry her out, but they never got to her. She lay right there in that swamp and died, twenty-five years old. We'd been married for two years that past week. If it would've happened three days later, she wouldn't have been in town at all. We would've been in St. Lucia for our anniversary, but instead… Instead she just bled out into the mud, lay there and suffered and died, all alone. They wouldn't let me see the body afterwards, funeral was closed-casket. They told me she wouldn't have wanted me to remember her like that… but all I saw it as was I never even got to say goodbye to her."

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

"If I had a dollar for every time somebody said that to me I could build a Taj Mahal in her honor."

"Did you ever…"

"Get him? Yeah. He was arrested. Never let me near the case, though. Probably for the best. He never would've made it to court if I'd gotten my hands on him. It was too much… after that, I couldn't walk through the precinct without seeing her… smelling her… she was everywhere, and it just drove me crazy… so I quit, and I fell back on Security… like most ex-cops do… He… uh… he got his in the end though, I guess. See, even prisoners, they got their own code of honor. Turns out the reason the guy was running so hard was he had outstanding warrants three counties over… Raped and murdered a little five year old girl. Those guys… The prisoners call them Baby Killers… Word got out, I guess… They found him in the bathroom in county lock-up in a pool of his own shit and blood, with a plunger shoved so far up his ass it tore through his guts."

Another grimace creased her forehead, but when he glanced her way her eyes seemed more sad than judgmental. "He suffered before he died… but I'll never shed a tear over what happened to him. He'd gotten enough tears from me. Now... now you know why I say the old shouldn't have to bury the young..."

The silence stretched between them.

The engine quieted and slowed as they took the exit ramp onto Fifth Street. Harley straightened in the seat, and pointed out into the gray.

"Take a right. It's the big building up here. You'll take a left onto MacArthur Place, the first parking lot's fine."

He nodded, and did as she said, guiding the truck into an empty spot marked RESERVED, and placing it in park. He reached into the back and withdrew her purse and briefcase. She exchanged them for the damp towel, which he tossed back where he had found it.

"Do you usually carry around towels for soggy passengers?"

"I was a Boy Scout," he quipped, but the joviality in his voice seemed forced, his smile hollow.

"Thank you for the ride home." She looked down into her lap, before glancing up to him again. The hand that reached for his arm was tentative and slow. He stared at it for several long moments as though he didn't know what to make of it. He looked up to her, finally. She opened her mouth, but found herself to be at a loss for words. She squeezed his forearm lightly, before letting go. "You're a good man, Wilhelm," she said, and opened the passenger door. Her soles tapped on the concrete before he spoke again.

"I still don't know what I'm looking at."

She looked back to him. "What?"

"The notebook. Still doesn't make any sense to me. I'm working on it… s'all I mean."

"Thank you," she said softly.

He shook his head dismissively, waved her off with a single hand. "Get inside before you drown, little girl."

She smiled weakly and nodded. The rain plastered the hair to her forehead.

"Thank you," she said again, and shut the heavy door firmly. Her shoes squelched again as she climbed the sidewalk and jogged toward the front entrance. Inside now, she felt miserably cold, and she huddled into a ball as she trudged resolutely to her mailbox.

"That you, Quinzel? You look like a drowned rat."

"So everybody keeps saying," she snapped, turning to face the middle-aged man behind the front desk before jamming her key into the lock.

"You in some kind of trouble?"

Her stomach dropped. She froze, turned slowly around to him again.

"Why would you say that?"

His eyebrows were raised. "Had two MP's show up here about an hour ago. Wanted in your apartment. Told him they could have the keys when I had a warrant. They didn't like that too much, though. Said they'd be back."

Her eyes darted up the hallway. Empty. She looked back to him hurriedly.

"I never came home, Jake."

The older man peered at her suspiciously. "You _are_ in some kind of trouble, aren't you?"

"You never saw me," she repeated slowly, stressing each word. He frowned for a moment, before he gave a curt nod.

"Yeah. You better take off, kid." He threw a thumb at the door quickly.

She wrenched the key out of the lock again, left her mail, and sprinted for the elevator.


	21. Chapter 15: Flight

Author's Chapter Notes:

Unbeta'd as usual. Coarse language and vague sexual content.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to their various owners. All others belong to me.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god…_ The words spiraled in her mind, swinging closer and closer, she felt the world tightening as a spring might, winding faster and faster around her. She jabbed the elevator button, hit it again and again.

"Come on, come on, come on," she muttered, staring out the glass doors into the parking lot beyond. After what seemed an eternity, the elevator finally chimed, and the doors slid open, much too slowly. She darted inside, jabbed the button for the tenth floor, then the button to close the doors. Only when they finally slid closed did she relax enough to take a breath. Adrenaline hummed through her veins, she could feel each pulse of it in her throat, her ears were roaring with the rush of it, hands trembling with suppressed energy. The elevator suddenly felt like a prison cell, and she hit the hallway running when the doors again slid open, and ran headlong into a camouflaged chest, hands settled tight around her shoulders. She screamed, lashed out with her only weapon, the briefcase. A metal corner caught a shaved temple, and her attacker stumbled backwards.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you, you crazy broad!?"

_Oh god_, she thought, _I'm paranoid, I am going crazy._

She tripped away from the unfortunate Staff Sergeant she had just assaulted (he lived five doors down this hallway) and ran as though her life depended on it. Her hands fumbled with the key, tears of frustration building in her eyes as she struggled with it.

"Come on!" she nearly screamed, finally found the lock and slid the key home, twisting it so hard she nearly broke the flimsy copy. She dashed inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Her ankles gave way as she tried to continue running on the carpeted surface; she kicked off the shoes, darted into the kitchen and tossed them into the wastebasket, exited, and headed for her bedroom.

She grabbed for the phone, nearly knocking it off the bedside table in the process, desperately punching in the number she knew by heart. It rang once, three times, finally an answer.

"Isley Nurseries, how can I help you?"

"I need to speak to Pam," she blurted hurriedly. The voice on the other end faltered.

"She's…. in a meeting with a customer. Is there something wrong?"

"Yes, yes! It's an emergency! Tell her that Harley called, I need her here right now, RIGHT NOW!" she screamed into the phone, slammed it home and raced across the room.

_Thank god I saved this box_, she thought, each breath tearing its way out of her lungs as she pulled it from the bottom of her closet, darted back and grabbed the ottoman, opening and emptying the top-shelf safe of its precious contents.

"They can't get their hands on this, it's what they're coming for, I know it is," she whispered, stacking the albums carefully inside, throwing the Captain's file on top of that, interlacing the flaps again. She kicked the ottoman out of the way: it skidded across the floor and landed with a solid thunk against the far wall, but she never saw, only heard, already digging through her closet and pulling out her old woodland BDU's, still with the Sergeant triple-bar on the arm. They were looking for a Lieutenant, a blonde Lieutenant. She tugged the uniform on quickly, pulled on a pair of socks, tightened the legs and tucked them into her combat boots. The green undershirt she jerked over her head, tucked in, pulled the jacket on atop that; she buttoned it shut, pulled her hair up into a knot, and jammed it beneath her service cap.

She snatched the box, carefully hooked it beneath one arm, grabbed her house keys and raced down the hall to the living room. She spent fifteen desperate, terrified minutes pacing the room, the box on her coffee table, but the familiar sound of the boots upon her feet did not comfort her as it usually did.

"Come on, Pammy, come on." Another interminable minute ticked past on the living room wall, and finally there was a heavy-handed knock at the door. She stiffened, heart again pounding in her ears. She inched closer, almost afraid to see what lay beyond it, carefully peered through the peephole.

"Goddammit, Harleen, open up!" Another pounding knock. She sounded as terrified as Harley felt.

"Oh, thank god, Pam," she said, opening the door and rushing forward, grasping desperately at her friend.

"What in the hell is wrong with you? Christina said you sounded hysterical." Her red hair looked garish and bright against her skin, drained bloodless in her panic.

"We've gotta go, Pam, they're after me. They're sending fucking MP's to search my apartment, we've got to leave now, there's no time for questions!"

"Wha—"

"No time!" Harley screamed, grabbed the box and then the redhead soon after, slamming her door shut and dragging her down the hallway. Pam went along almost unwillingly, before her feet picked up the pace and together they ran for the elevator.

The doors were sliding open as they rounded the corner. Harley saw one flash of Army greens and skidded to a stop, making a desperate scramble back where she had come from. Pamela barely hid the squeak of her shoes as she was jerked in the other direction. Harley barreled down a hallway that ran perpendicular to her own, Pam barely keeping up.

"Oh, god I'm out of shape," the redhead gasped as Harley slammed through the stairwell door, feet a blur as she made her way down. Ten flights took less time to go down than they did to climb, Harley thought, and made the lobby in little time.

"They're not looking for you," Harley whispered, throwing her head toward the door. Pam gulped and nodded, tried to calm her breathing as she exited casually, then immediately darted her head back inside.

"Front door's clear, come on."

As she stepped over the threshold, she clung desperately to the box. Jake was still behind the front desk, he made a desperate slashing motion across his throat, Harley's eyes widened as she saw another patch of green to the right of the front door. Jake ducked behind the desk, reappeared a moment later with a Fed-Ex box. He tossed it into Pam's chest, and she barely managed to catch and hang onto it as the breath came out of her in a great rush as the solid weight contacted with her sternum.

"Leaving us already, Sergeant? I tell you, moving companies must make fortunes off you people." He looked remarkably cool as he exited his booth. "Here, ladies, let me help you with the door."

"Thank you," Pam said brightly, having already caught on. Jake stepped conveniently between Harleen and the Major, gold leaves bright on his epaulets, that stood less than five feet away. He blocked her petite form from the man's line of sight with his own larger one. Harley was painfully conscious of the flash of the Beretta on his hip as she passed him by.

She was going to hyperventilate.

She gave the desk man a grateful nod, barely able to slow her feet to a walk as she made her way past the door and to the small white pickup truck Pam had driven from the Nursery. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, the pavement glistening beneath the lamps.

"What am I gonna do with this box?" Pam asked from the side of her mouth.

"Just take it, we'll worry about it later," Harley hissed back. They lifted both boxes into the bed of the truck, and climbed into the cab calmly. There were three Humvees in the parking lot, Harley could see clearly beneath the streetlights, one occupied. Neither of the officers inside paid attention as the women passed them by. No doubt they were confident they had their quarry surrounded. Two in the elevator, two in the vehicle, one at the front door, one at the back, likely.

_Six officers, six officers, Jesus Christ!_

"You really fucked up this time, Harley," Pam whispered as she turned the key in the ignition and carefully pulled out, driving the appropriate fifteen miles an hour out of the parking lot. Her thigh was trembling. As soon as they rounded the corner of the building, she floored it, tires squealing for a moment before they caught the damp pavement after the sudden acceleration, the Toyota jumping forward and hitting sixty in little time. She blew through the red light, slammed on the brakes, took the corner of Fifth Street going thirty. They fishtailed briefly, Harley's heart caught in her throat as she felt the left side of the truck lift off the pavement before settling back onto it, tires squealing again as Pamela jerked it back onto course. She cut off a brown Suburban onto the exit ramp: he laid on his horn, and Harley could see him screaming from her position kneeling upon the seat, fingernails digging into the upholstery as she stared out the back window.

"Are they following us?" Pam gasped, looking every few seconds into her rear view.

"I don't see them, I don't see them," Harley whispered. It was only after they screeched through the cloverleaf back onto 556, leaving sight of Fifth Street that she finally turned around. Her body felt heavy and exhausted, trembling after the adrenaline rush, and she sank into the seat like a rock.

"Put your seatbelt on," Pam muttered, and they both sat in a pale, frightened silence.

Remembering this moment later, she will find herself incapable of recalling exactly who started laughing first, her or Pamela, and perhaps it didn't matter. Only that the silence was now replaced with peals of laughter, waves and waves of it, until her cheeks hurt from smiling and her eyes filled with tears and her stomach was aching, cramping: she curled into a ball in the seat and laughed harder. They grabbed for each other's hand simultaneously, clinging together desperately, and she laughed until she felt dizzy with it, the tears pouring down her cheeks, Pamela's fingers tight around her own.

"Oh, Jesus, Harley… we're fleeing the police, do you realize that? Oh my god, oh my god! I lost the fucking police!" The redhead was gasping, cheeks damp and flushed, and Harley wrapped herself around her arm and squeezed, and Pam patted her on the knee before she inched back over and buckled herself in. She pressed a hand to her chest, and leaned back with a thud upon the seat, closing her eyes.

"I think I'm gonna have a heart attack, Red."

"Yeah… me too. But you know, Harl… I think it's tacky when couples match," Pam deadpanned.

Harley dissolved into hysterics.

~~

With Pamela driving seventy-five miles an hour on the freeway, it took twenty minutes to reach the suburbs of the city and her nondescript one story ranch house. It was small, Harley knew, because the rest of the lot was dominated by Pam's private greenhouse. Though her nursery dealt mainly in mainstream plants with a few expensive exceptions, Pamela cultivated the rarest for her eyes only. She jealously guarded her plants, and Harley might have even ventured to say that she was obsessed with them, if she'd had any room at all to talk about such a thing (she didn't).

She pulled into the driveway, slowing and coming to a halt, placed the truck in park and let her forehead fall forward onto the steering wheel with a thud.

"I think my life just got shorter by a few years…"

"I don't think I can walk," Harley warbled, and dragged herself out of the cab, slogging her way to the rear of the truck as if through mud she felt so tired, lifting the box again into her arms. Pam followed her a few moments later, trudging behind her up the three steps onto the small front porch. The redhead rubbed at her face with one hand, the other flipping through her ring of keys before she found the appropriate one and slid it into the lock. A hand dragged back through her hair, she pushed the door open, and held the screen door out of the way to allow Harley to enter with her burden. She set the box heavily upon the couch as the house opened into the living room, and sank into a heap next to it. Pam closed and latched the screen door. Out of the corner of her eye, Harley saw the woman glance up and down the street before shutting, locking, and deadbolting the front door.

"You know… I didn't even stop and pack clothes for tomorrow… I can't go to work in these," she said, spreading her arms and staring down at herself.

"I'm sure I've got something you can fit into…" Pam threw herself down onto the opposite end of the couch. "You're not going back there to get your clothes, surely?"

"Of course not, but aren't they going to be kind of tight?"

"Yeah, cause you always dressed like Mother Theresa before this…"

"Oh, shut up," Harley muttered.

She lay back and closed her eyes.

~~

Wednesday dawned brighter than the day before, the horizon lacking the scarlet of the storm that had stained the previous morning's sky, now clear and bright and blue. It seemed as though the smog that usually hovered over the city had followed the storm away in the night. Harley stirred and slowly sat up, blinking into the bright shaft of light that filtered through the sheer curtains on the east window. She'd slept fitfully, in a state of near-constant paranoia, jumping at every noise, ears tuned for the sound of a diesel engine or the close of a door.

She rubbed her eyes with her fists, yawned widely, and stumbled into the adjoining bathroom to take a quick, hot shower. She tied the towel tightly around her, and returned to the guest bedroom to make the bed. From there, it was to Pam's room. The redhead in question Harley could see sitting on a chair on the back patio, soaking up the morning sun like a flower, a steaming mug of tea beside her on the wrought iron table. Harley smiled fondly and wandered to the closet, riffling through the clothes. She decided on a black pencil skirt and a plain white button-up. She pulled her hair into the chignon with the ease of much practice, and stole several of Pam's much-unused bobby pins to secure it in place. There were a pair of thin black pumps that caught her eye, and as she slipped the second on, she heard the sliding door move in its track.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I love the fact we wear the same size shoe?"

"If you try to steal my stilettos, I swear to God I'll stab you to death with them."

Harley pouted. "Okay, okay, so I'll give 'em back." She rolled her eyes theatrically and Pam landed a solid smack to the side of her head as she passed. "Owww…" She whined, rubbing her throbbing left ear, and trailed after the redhead.

They ate quickly, something called muesli that was actually quite good Harley discovered, and Pam retreated to her room to get dressed. She emerged a few minutes later, tossing Harley the keys to the Isley Nursery truck she had driven the night before.

"Might as well drop me off, and take that. Bus doesn't come out this far.

"Thanks, Red," Harley smiled gratefully.

Commuter traffic was moving smoothly on the interstate, she found. She dropped off Pam and made it to the hospital with time to spare. She parked in the farthest space in the farthest lot, conscious of the fact she was still driving… jees… the 'getaway vehicle'.

_God, I'm already running from the MP's and I haven't done anything yet. Doesn't matter now, though. There was nothing in my apartment to find. That will have been a dead end for them... The albums are in Pam's attic, the copies are with Captain Knauer, they're safe. If they're looking for me, though, they'll find me today, because they'll know where to find me._

Her heart beat, fast and light like a bird, she thought, high in her throat and she tried desperately to swallow it down, to keep herself calm as she drew nearer to the building. Whatever was going to happen, it would happen today. She could only hope that she would be ready for it when it did.

There were no bells and whistles when she hit the door, no one even looked her way, just went about their business, conscious of her presence only enough to avoid running into her in the hallways. She relaxed a little as she followed the familiar route to her office. That, too, proved to be safe. Nothing looked disturbed, and it was empty when she arrived and sat behind her desk at 7:45. At 7:59, she was deeply perturbed to realize she'd spent the last few minutes fussing with her hair and smoothing out her skirt. She stuffed her hands beneath her legs just before the door opened. The effort proved largely futile, because a second later she was unable to prevent her flight from the chair as he shut the door, straight into his waiting arms. He lifted her easily, she felt light as a child in his embrace: she wrapped her arms around his neck, legs around his waist and kissed his cheek gently, her own coloring slightly.

"They're here, aren't they?" he whispered, and she nodded quickly, gulping.

"I haven't told him anything," she whispered back, and his expression said he found the statement superfluous.

"I know you haven't. I'd have torn your tongue out already." The color drained from her face just as quickly as it had risen, and he gave a motherly cluck of his tongue, hands squeezing at her bottom, and the next rush of heat she felt was not to her face. She swallowed again, trying to clear the sudden haze of arousal from her mind, trying to resist the urge to press herself more fully against him.

"What are we going to do, Jack? Why are they after you? Why do they want the albums? What is it that's written on the pictures? Why did you give it to m-" She was cut off when he smashed his mouth to hers, and he kissed her until bright lights sparkled behind her lids. She stared at him when he released her, breathless, every nerve in her body singing for him, and he sank smoothly into his chair, placing her on his lap and looking her over in a way that spoke of pride, possession, and satisfaction. She shivered to be here again, so close to him, and he drew her tight against his chest, tugging her head down to his shoulder; she shuddered as his lips brushed the shell of her ear.

"Listen closely, little girl…" he whispered, rocking her gently, "Daddy's going to tell you a story."


	22. Chapter 16: Tell Tale, Part 1

Author's Chapter Notes:

This part contains coarse language, slash, and semi-graphic sex. This half of Tell Tale is told through Ben's point of view. There is a purposeful change of tense throughout the work.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are property of their various owners. Ben Ladue belongs to me.

They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Likewise, the story of a thousand pages begins with one single word. I guess they mean that everything has to start somewhere, and they usually start small. But sometimes, things are just there, full blown from the beginning, like a tornado.

Like him.

I look back and know my life is never going to be the same, it all changed in that instant, the first time I saw him. I didn't know him well that first day, but I had already made up my mind about him. As the days went on, I found that, more than anything, I was right. Friday came and went, Monday, too, and still not so much as a crack in his composure, not a fissure of frustration. The man was a machine. We'd push, and he just pushed back, harder. One way or another, every man in that group learned what to do, and what not to do.

Rule #1, listen and listen well. Rule #2, stay out of his way. Rule #3, _never_ call him crazy. Maybe I should have made that Rule #1… It's debatable.

That first day, we'd been out on the obstacle courses since four that morning, from when it was still bite your ass cold till when you were so hot you wanted to peel your clothes off and go lay face down in the nearest trough. I'd actually done it a time or two myself since I'd gotten here. I'd run that course so often in those preceding months that I could have done it with my eyes closed. It was busy work, what they were landing us with. For someone who'd spent the last fifteen years of his life dreaming about making it into SpecOps… it was humiliating. Basic Training that never ended, just repeated itself over and over, like some giant fucking broken record.

I'd finally been given the chance to join Delta, only just settling in. The guys… the guys, they liked me, right, but him? Oh no, not him, not Freeman, not that long, lanky fuck with the chip on his shoulder almost as big as his fat fucking head. Within weeks of my joining, the chance was taken away from me again. They said I had a temper. Doc labeled me as overly aggressive, said I lacked self-control, was a danger to the others on my squad.

Too violent for the US Army. Give me a fucking break.

I could have beaten any one of those pussy bastards into the pavement and nobody would have blinked an eye. See, it wasn't the violence that got Colonel Byrd. It was the fact it was a Sergeant I'd gotten a hold of. Said it was patently disrespectful, a blatant disregard of rank. He asked me why I did it, asked me over and over again until I was so tired of hearing the question I could have pounded my fucking head on the desk. Cause I never gave him an answer. How could I have?

What the hell was I going to tell him? That we don't ask, and we don't tell, but we find each other anyway? That I'd gotten in good with those green eyes over in the Officer's Club? That I had a real thing for him? That I'd been seeing him for months on the side, going to fucking titty bars and paying off the strippers to have a little alone time together? That I just couldn't get enough of him and when I found him with his ass in the air and Freeman balls deep in _my_ fucking bed that I just snapped?

Somehow 'The motherfucker had it coming' sounded just a little bit better on my end of things.

Took eight of them to get me off him. I'd broken two bones in my right hand, but I didn't know it then. Just sat in the corner, shaking and shivering, listening to them screaming and running around like a bunch of preschoolers. Some fucking soldiers. Oh god, is he breathing? Jesus Christ, Ladue, what did you do to him?

Taught him a fucking lesson, didn't I? You don't touch what's not yours.

The medics rushed him off. Heard the infirmary sent him out to County General. Heard it was bad. Heard he fell into a coma. I sat in my cell in the brig and laughed all night long, until I couldn't anymore, till all I could do was sit and rock and hold my hand, till I wanted to fucking cry I was so goddamn mad. They left me there one more day before they let the Doc set the bones, put my arm in a cast. It was seven days before Byrd even called me into his office, and then I just sat there with leg irons clapped around my fatigues cause they didn't have a pair of handcuffs big enough to fit around the cast, played the asshole card cause it was the last in my hand, watched my fucking career wash right down the drain in front of me.

It was a damn wonder he didn't court marshal me and send my ass straight to Leavenworth. Guess he decided a cell wasn't good enough. He gave me a whole fucking country to serve my time in. All the way back to a fucking E1. Fuck the pay cut, that never even crossed my mind, but the fact that I was there, I was there, in Delta, living my dream, and then that fucking rat-faced bastard took it all away from me. I don't think he even liked men. He just… found out, somehow, knew it was just the place to strike… He fucking… _wanted_ me out of Delta.

Shoulda just tried to out me to Byrd, no, he had to play a fucking game, didn't he? Oh, but he bit off a little bit more than he could chew… Somebody's always gotta fuck with the short guy, always.

And now, now here I am, doing my time on the desert fucking sands. Oh, but it's not all bad. I got the boys. We're all good friends, and after one prick NCO, the pansy Captains they send our way are nothing. All until him, that is, and that's really what I was talking about in the first place, wasn't it? How it all changed when he got here. Not all of us liked him from the start, not like me. McCall was the next to catch on, then Nunez, those two I was closest with, trusted my judgment, you see.

See, that first day, we were in the briefing room. The building we occupied had once been housing for none other than the Republican Guard. God, I loved those stories about Desert Storm, about G-Day, my Uncle told me all the time, as many times as I wanted to hear. Said it was the day the Army finally started getting their balls back. Oh, he was the reason I wanted in the Army to begin with. Walking legend in my eyes. He told me once, that there is nothing more satisfying than defeating a worthy enemy and more than anything, the Republican Guard were truly worthy foes that they faced. Funny how serendipity works.

We were all sat behind our little wooden desks, the others waiting to rib him, me, I was just watching. I could take one look at him and know there wasn't going to be any pushing him away, but the others hadn't quite figured that out yet. That first day, he walked in, this underfed straw-blonde scarecrow in desert camouflage, and it didn't take them long.

"Good morning, ladies…This is not boot camp. You are not here to learn. You are here because you are the biggest fuck-ups the Army has. This is not day camp. I am not here to babysit you. I will not coddle you, comfort you, or hold your hand. From this day forward, we will train. You already know the course, but you will run it till you can run it backwards, and you will run it faster than you ever have before. You will bleed, and you will like it. You will hate me… and I will enjoy every minute of it. Any questions?"

I could have come in my fucking pants. God, I was hopeless for him from that day on, I think.

Took him six months to really warm up to _me_. I swear, it's like trying to approach a wild animal. You just gotta… edge up to him sideways and hope you don't scare him off, or he doesn't rip your throat out along the way. That night, when he took me down in the riverbed, I could've cried from frustration…took me eighteen months to have that little psychotic break the Doc had been talking about. I mean, I never wanted to do it… never in my life have I ever hurt someone that I loved, and I love him, God, I love him, and I couldn't… couldn't take it anymore. Having what I wanted, held right in front of me, always too close, the man has no sense of personal boundaries, I mean.

I just wanted him… wanted him till it drove me crazy. I got him alone, far enough away the others wouldn't hear a scuffle, just me and him, and a K-bar in my pocket. I didn't bring a gun. Didn't care if he killed me, kind of thought it was better that way. Wasn't planning on making any friends doing something like this, was I? He knew where we were going, wandering off together, we always did, he had restless feet, always going somewhere, having me tag along for a pair of ears to rattle to. Rocks, rocks, everywhere, fucking rocks, a crop of 'em, God, he trusted me… I'll never forgive myself for that, for even chancing to betray that trust that was so hard-won. But he drove me crazy! What else do I say? I can't explain myself past that. I backed him up against the rock and pressed the blade in deep and he froze, couldn't see his face, his breathing still so fucking even, and as I fumbled with his fly he started laughing, and I wanted to slit his throat right fucking then.

"Is that what you want?" So demeaning, sneering, laughing, I hated him. I told him.

"I hate you… I can't take this anymore… You can tell them I forced you."

The crazy fuck, he leaned into the knife, leaned in till he started bleeding fast and the blade was sinking farther and farther and I had to pull back before the whole thing opened up on me… Damn him! Stupid fuck would kill himself, take even _that_ satisfaction away from me... but then…

"You won't have to," he whispers, and he's kissing me, actually kissing me, driving our mouths and our bodies together, and he's actually clumsy, like some over-eager teenager and it just makes me want him more, everything makes me want him more. Had lube… never intended on hurting him that way, even wanted to make it good for him… maybe I am fucking crazy… it would hurt him, wouldn't it? To make him like it when he didn't even want it? But I never wanted to hurt him…Dear fucking God, he rode me till my knees and my palms were raw with the sand. I think he wanted to punish me for pulling the knife on him. Instead, I came so hard I bit two of my fingers down to the bone trying to keep myself quiet when it happened.

He'd never been with a man before, but there was none of the usual 'I don't know about this' hysterics. We sat together in silence while he sewed my fingers shut in the moonlight. I winced and hissed, and he just laughed at me, looked up through those girly fucking lashes.

"You pussy bastard."

"You couldn't've used anesthetic or something?"

"Do I look like I just carry a syringe on my person daily?"

"Why not? Needle and suture…Knife, knife… 'nother knife, pistol."

"A man can never have too many knives," he defended.

"You carry everything else on there…"

He laughed again, and I thought… I could listen to that sound forever. The air was cold, his hands were warm where mine were cold, 'cept where the stitches were throbbing and the needle sliding in and out and him breathing right next to me and it was bliss, I tell you. That night was heaven. I could've died that night and been happy, I think.

I've had more nights like that, though, that's the great thing. Tonight was a night like that, least that's what I thought.

I remember, us rushing up the corridor to the old sick bay, McCall at watch at the head of the hallway. He slid to a stop and stared at McCall, looked back to me.

"He knows?" he said, accusingly.

"My wife is a lawyer for GLAAD. If she thought I had a problem with gay people, she'd take that problem and she'd shove it straight up _my_ ass."

"A lawyer?" he said suspiciously. I laughed.

"Four Eyes is into older women."

"Hell yeah, man," he grinned at me, "Like a fine wine. They only get better…"

"Where're the others?"

"Oh yeah," Four Eyes said, as though he had just remembered, "Turns out you gave an order for a night exercise which we three kings are presiding over… It'll be an awful boring exercise though…"

He looked at me, and shook his head, almost proud, I preened.

"You know, you two keep jaw-jacking and jacking's all you'll be doing. Go on, I live vicariously through you." He threw a thumb backwards. We laughed and took off.

"Three more months," I said, clapping him on the shoulder as I passed.

"I'm carving the days into my fucking arm, man," McCall grinned.

Forty five minutes later, we're laying sweaty and sated, pressed too close together in a twin pallet, thin knees knocking together under thin cotton while we drive elbows into exposed ribs and laugh.

"Ow! God dammit! Ow.. I give, I give!"

"Pussy," he says to me again, though he knows damn well he'd never let me do anything but lose. I don't mind it. He loves to celebrate a victory.

We breathe hard, and his arm is wrapped around mine and I can feel the pulse on the inside of his elbow while the sheets are cooling against us after the second go-round, and I sigh and close my eyes and just bask in the nearness of him. The light's out when next I open my eyes, and the phone is ringing. I hear him fumbling around in the dark, and my shoulder feels cold where his head is missing from it, and finally there's the slap of plastic under his fingers instead of the sound of wood.

"What the fuck?" I mutter.

"Who is that?" The speakerphone asks.

"Never fucking mind who that was, who in the fuck is this?" he asks soon after, wrenches my head sideways and shoves me face first down into the pillow, all with his eyes still closed.

"Jack, this is Michael."

I can practically hear the gears whirring in his head. Finally,

"Corian? How did you get this number?"

"Yes. It's important. You must be alone."

He sits up. The pallet creaks.

"What is it? What's going on?"

"They're coming for you, Jack. Do you hear me? That little stunt you pulled up north didn't make you any friends. Vreeland wants you harvested, do you understand me? He wants your work gathered, and he wants you dead."

He moves in the dark, pulls at his mouth with the palm of his hand.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You're alive as long as they don't have your research. You have a cryptologist at your disposal, Jack. I don't have to lay it out for you, do I?"

"No," he says quietly, and the phone clicks.

Now? Now we sit in the dark and breathe.


	23. Chapter 16: Tell Tale, Part 2

Author's Chapter Notes:

Warnings: This chapter contains war and gruesome imagery, coarse language, and racial comments.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to their various owners, all others belong to me.

He did exactly as he had said for he had always been a man of his word. ('Integrity', his mother had told him, 'is all a man really has in this world.') He worked their backs to breaking, their fingers to the bone, and then he did it again until they knew the routine better than he himself did. PT, OC, PT again. They were the best, the fastest, the strongest that they had ever been. Nine weeks after the beginning, he looked them over with something like pride. These men, his men, each and every one of them a reflection of himself, and dammit if he didn't like what he saw.

"They sent you here for punishment. Today, I have given you a reward. Never in your life will you be able to bear the pride that you bear today. You came here as misfits, I have made you a team. Today, you are the best. I'm recommending each and every one of you for Elite."

The whoop had been loud, ten men standing together, each and every one of them bearing the ties of those who have endured great hardship together and survived to see the other side. They ate heartily, drank deeply, and slept the sleep of the exhausted. He lay awake in the night and listened to their breathing, his team, these wolves in human form, each thirsty for the blood and hungry for their flesh of their enemies.

He closed his eyes, and slept deeply himself.

OOO

The next day, he wakes, and travels the one hundred yards of hallway to the briefing room, one of the few rooms with telephone access still wired in, sat himself in the chair, propped his feet upon the desk and waited for the congratulations to begin. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang, and he reached forward to bring it to his ear, balancing it easily between head and shoulder.

"Corian," he said, brightly.

"I don't believe it," the man laughed on the other end. "I never would have thought it."

He grinned broadly, chest swelling with the pride only the greatest of leaders had ever known, he thought.

"Yanno, you could have had just a little more faith in me, Major."

"Alright, so you proved me wrong, Jack. You can start packing your bags. I'm putting you up for another promotion. Even General Vreeland won't be able to argue your efficacy after this."

His heart sank, mind spun, he tried desperately to understand what he had just heard.

"What?"

"I said you're coming home, Jack. I expected you to be a little happier about this. Two months in that hellhole, aren't you ready to come home?"

"You… you sent me here to train them. I've trained them, and they're the best that they're ever going to be, and now you're telling me to come home? What's going to happen to them?"

"They're going back to their various departments, as was the plan all along. What is all this, aren't you happy?"

His jaw opened and closed, mind furiously searching for the words.

"No, no I'm not fucking happy. I've made them better than ever, and now you're telling me to come home? I'm not coming home, do you hear me, Corian? You let us do our fucking job!"

He slammed the phone back into the cradle.

OOO

They had not liked it, he thought some eighteen months later, no one was particularly pleased with his demand, and he thought perhaps the Major had been a little hurt by his refusal to return home. He would get over it one day, Jack thought, and leaned heavily into the building, taking a quick peek over the top of the wall. His forehead stung as several rifle rounds took off chunks of the mud brick wall before he had a chance to sink back into safety.

"Shit," he muttered, heart pounding. He loved firefights. There was no adrenaline rush like it, maybe except for night jumps (leaping into the dark abyss, eyes closed and arms open), he loved those, too.

"Captain, come in," It was Brandon on the radio (now a Specialist, he thought proudly). "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine, I need to get off this fucking roof!"

"You got bigger problems than that. You got five hostiles coming for your stairwell!"

He rummaged quickly in his jacket, found what he was searching for, pulled the pin, and tossed it behind him, waiting for the familiar concussive force, the beautiful splatter and thump of falling body parts.

"Not anymore they're not!" he yelled into the radio.

His ears rang after the explosion, but he could still hear the screams of victory from his men in the bunker, knew which voice screamed louder than the others. Soon, that voice came from the radio as well.

"Your stairwell's fucked, you're gonna have to rappel down, I'll cover you!" Ladue yelled.

"Got it," he replied.

Maybe he had been right, Jack thought, grabbing hammer and pin from the depths of his jacket, he carried everything on his person, but there was no use in being unprepared. He secured the rope, slid the carabineer into place and tied the rope around him. It was a quick rappel, quicker than it should have been his ankles reminded him at the bottom, but one way or another he was on the ground. He left the rope in place, narrowly missing two bullets that sank into the brick with plumes of smoke and dust. He sank lower to the ground, watched the red mist that flew from the attacking insurgent as his sniper took him out, one perfect shot to the heart later.

Ladue clapped him heavily onto the shoulder as he sank back behind the ruined wall with the others.

"So, I'm here… who brought the nachos?" The others laughed and Marcus took out two more on the roof.

"So what's the plan?" Brandon asked.

"Colonel says we secure the area until the Cavalry gets here, and then we blow all these motherfuckers away."

The others nodded, voiced their agreement… all but one. Jack looked to Nunez.

"What the hell do you have to say?" Jack snapped, caught the block of plastic explosive and the duffel of the others easily a moment later.

"Who the fuck says we have to wait for the Cavalry? We lay charges on the right side, that five-story's gonna collapse right on top of them. They'll be sitting ducks."

"Eleven of us, hundred and fifty of them… I say that makes the odds about 50/50." Ladue grinned.

"Yanno," Jack said softly, "I like the way he thinks.. You stay for cover fire, Marcus; Ladue, Wentworth, you come with us."

They all nodded their ascent.

"Coast is clear for the moment," Marcus said, after a cursory sweep with his scope.

Jack lost sight of the others within a moment, Nunez and Wentworth disappearing into the bowels of the abandoned building. Jack would lay his charges along the outside, Nunez along the interior. There was one man behind the corner. He never saw Ben coming, a moment later Jack watched his favorite K-bar slide through his throat with perfect smoothness, felt his cock harden at the first gorgeous sight of vertebra glinting through the wide open wound. Ben winked at him knowingly as he wiped the blade clean on his fatigues.

_Pay attention_, he snapped within his mind, wiring the fuses the way he tied his boots every morning: with the little thought borne of much practice. Ladue took out two more coming around the right side, the H&K P7 steady and easy in his hands as the nine-millimeter Parabellum cartridges tore perfect holes through their targets.

"You almost done?" he yelled.

"Finished," he replied, and Ladue fired three more times, taking down two more before they reached the bunker again. Nunez was already there, Wentworth collapsed beside him in a ball of sweat and wrenching breath.

"Slow ass, gringo, I been waitin' for you to do the honors." The Mexican tossed the detonator into his hands a moment later. He grinned in return, feeling the heft of each in his palms, the surge of joy in his heart at the knowledge that a moment later the entire thing would go up in a cloud of dust at his command.

"Wait a second," Ladue yelled, withdrawing his favorite Canon from his jacket. Jack grinned back at him, waited for his nod before he pressed the buttons together.

The silence seemed to stretch forever beneath the hot sun before the first explosion came. He felt the thud of it in his chest, then the next, and the next. He heard the camera whirring as Ladue stood to get a better view of the event. The eastern side of the building collapsed, the entire structure falling perfectly sideways as the foundation buckled. No bullets came now, only the echoing screams from inside the southern most building of the compound. A moment, later, he knew, they would begin running from the inside, like little cockroaches swarming out of a hole in the wall.

"Alright, boys!" he screamed, lifting his XM8 into his arms with great care. "Time for a little target practice!"

They came just as he expected, great droves of them, each one cut down only seconds after he exited.

"Got one!" Brandon yelled.

"Already got four!" Israel screamed. "Die, you bastards, die!"

The sand became wet with the gore, the bodies began to stack upon one another, they tripped as they exited the building, wallowing in the mud, screaming in terror as they watched their comrades go down. Jack laughed and laughed, cradling the assault rifle close to his chest as a child cradles a much-loved toy. This _was_ his favorite toy, he thought. How could he ever want to go home? This place was heaven!

An hour later, the dust had settled, the last of the blood had leaked from the corpses and they filled their time picking through the remains. Ladue had a handful of gold teeth he'd popped out of those who still had heads left, to make a new ring with when he returned home, he said, and Israel collected an ear off of each, to leave his mark, he said.

"How's that for Jihad, motherfucker, huh?" he screamed into the shattered faces of his fallen enemies. "How you like the little Jew now, huh!? That's for Gaza, you motherfucker!"

"Here," Brandon said, nudging Jack's shoulder as he rounded the rubble on the left side. "Look what I found, Cappy."

A small cylindrical object hit Jack in the chest. He caught it a moment later, held it up in the sun to read the tiny font imprinted upon the side of the tube.

"I'll be damned," he whispered. "A Cuban cigar. Good find, kid." He clapped him on the shoulder. Brandon grinned in return, proud.

Jack seated himself upon a chunk of the brick wall, tore the end of the cigar off with his teeth, lit it with the American flag Zippo he'd stolen off that asshole Colonel during the trip out to Bahrain. He could hear the rumble of the tanks long before he ever saw them. Jack took a long draw off the Cuban, blew a couple of smoke rings before he clenched it between his teeth as the first hatch opened.

"What took you fuckers so long? We had to do all the work ourselves!"

OOO

That day, the triumph, the pure unadulterated fucking fun, oh, all that seemed so far away from him now. He couldn't even imagine it anymore. The memory seemed like a ghost, unreachable and transparent and how could he have ever been that happy, that healthy?

The prick sighed, seated in a chair a few feet away, wiping Jack's blood off the toe of his boot, off the blade of his knife.

"This is getting really old," he said again, and looked up at Jack. His skin was pale. His blood ran sluggishly, leaking down his face with saliva in a thin, red glaze. The flesh of his cheeks fluttered with each breath, the severed tissue rubbing together agonizingly.

"Bring in the next one," the prick said.

"There's only one left," the guard answered.

"No," Jack whispered, "No, no!"

The prick grinned at him, tossed his head at the guard. The little mouse looked sick, more terrified and tired than ever, but Jack felt no pity, only a seething hatred that burned and twisted in his heart. He wanted to rip him apart, he thought, tear him limb from limb, drink his fucking blood, cook him like a fucking steak.

He would have given anything to be blind, to be deaf as they pushed him through the doorway. He looked so weak, so weak, Jack thought, he could see the bruises beneath the blindfold, the bruises on his arms, could see dried blood around his mouth.

"Please don't look at me," Jack whispered. He could not stand it, could not stand the thought.

The prick heard him. The guards threw Ben at his feet, and Jack pulled them away as quick as he could.

"Oh, ladies and gentleman," the prick laughed, "I think we've got a winner! Take his blindfold off, Joe,"

They grabbed him by the throat, wrenched him off the ground, jerked the strip of black cloth from over his eyes. He tossed his head, wincing as the bright fluorescents tore into his vision. Blurry, confused, his eyes did not focus properly at first. A concussion, Jack thought with some small portion of his mind still working properly, not yet fuzzy with the loss of blood. Finally, those blue eyes focused weakly on his face, filled with the horror and disgust that he had never wanted to see in them.

"No," he whispered again.

"Jack," Ben said shakily, tears filling his eyes, "Jack!? Is that you?! Oh god, oh god, are you okay?" His head shook, eyes averting, as though if he did not see perhaps it would all go away. The prick grabbed him by the chin, forced his head forward, pried at an eye with his fingers.

"Look at him. Look at him! You see, you see, huh? What he did to himself? He's not okay, he's hurt real, real bad. I really did a number on him. He needs medical attention, kid, he needs help, and so do you. You been coughing up blood for hours they tell me, you're gonna bleed to death. You wanna go home, don't you? You wanna see your Mama again, huh? You tell us the fucking passwords. You hear me? You tell us the passwords, and you can both go home. You're US Soldiers boys, we don't wanna hurt you. You see what happened to your friends?" He wrenched his head sideways, and Ben screamed helplessly as he stared at the others, dead and piled together like forgotten garbage.

"No!" he screamed, "Oh god, oh Jesus fuck, no!"

"You tell us the passwords, you both can go home, this whole thing can be forgotten, like a bad dream."

"Don't listen to him," Jack whispered.

"Shut him the fuck up!" The prick yelled. The guard kicked him in the stomach, kicked him again and again; he coughed, wretched, puked up little but blood and bile.

"Oh god," Ben screamed again, "Stop it! Stop hurting him! Please, I'll fucking tell you, I'll tell you! Brandon set the locks on his system, I know the passwords! He told them to me!"

"Stop," the prick said, wrenched his head up by the chin. "What are the last two passwords?"

"The first one is….. Alpha Bravo 2745289…. The second is… Zulu Delta 14 Echo 27… 492."

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, tears tracking clean patches through the blood on his cheeks. The gunshot came a moment later. He could not bear to see the eyes, those blue clear eyes as the light, the life left them forever.

"Thanks, kid," the prick laughed.

"Oh god, baby, no, no, baby, no, please…. You fuck!" He screamed, felt his cheeks tear open wider as he did. "You stupid fuck!"

"Oh," the prick laughed again. "Did he mean something to you? Yanno, you shoulda spoke up, if I woulda known…" The prick was in front of him now. Jack opened his eyes, watched as though through a veil as he caught two handfuls of IV tubes, ripped them all from Jack's body with one swift jerk. He felt the flesh tear, but he barely noticed the pain now, "I would have left him alive… leave you a little company while you're bleeding out."

"You're dead," Jack whispered, "You're dead and you don't even fucking know it yet."

The prick grinned at him, reached forward and smacked the left side of his face roughly, the chunk he had taken out by accident when Jack's teeth had finally found his fingers, clenched down until he felt them grind down into bone. Those fingers were stitched shut now, and Jack snapped at them again, blood and spit flying from his mouth as he screamed, raved and wailed.

"You keep dreaming, boy… This time you won't have to wake up."


	24. Chapter 17: Changes

Author's Chapter Notes:

Unbeta'd as usual. This chapter is not for kiddies. Rough sex, abuse, borderline non-con, and coarse language.

There were no words, she thought, nothing that she could say to comfort or soothe him, nothing that would hold the right weight, nothing to remove the sorrow, the hurt that she saw engrained in his eyes, burrowed down to the very heart of him. Her heart felt as though it had shattered in her chest, a million pieces of shrapnel stabbing at her with each shuddering breath. The tears would not stop, would not lessen or slow, and she clung to his shoulders, buried her face against him and sobbed.

The hurt he had endured, mental, physical, psychological, oh, God, the horror he had experienced. How could anyone survive that? That by itself proved his superiority, did it not? They had sought to break him, but they had not succeeded. They had left him to die, yet he had survived.

She felt his hands upon her hair and looked up to him slowly, blue eyes bright in a sea of red, veins snaking through the white, vision swimming with tears.

"Oh, Jack," she whispered, chest heaving with another sob. His hands cupped her cheeks, warm and rough, wiped her tears away with his thumbs. He lifted his hands to his mouth, licked first one digit, then another.

"Mmm… Why are you crying?" he asked in amusement.

"How could I not?" she answered, voice watery and weak.

"The past is the past, Harley. You're here now," he smiled softly. Another tear slid from her eye: he caught it this time with his tongue and she gasped, shuddering against him again. Her chest tightened, heart swelling within its confines. _Yes, yes_, she thought, _I'm here now, I'm going to make it all better._

She sniffled delicately. "After all the work you did to hide your research, they found it anyway?"

"No," he said softly. "Brandon… he was a whiz with computers, you see. He set level after level of security. They broke through many of them, but not all. There were still two left… Only three of us knew the passwords… Brandon, myself… and him. There were two sets of passwords however… When he died… he gave the second set."

"The second set?" she asked, confused.

"Yes… The first set would open the system… the second… would completely erase it."

"They destroyed all of the research?"

"Yes," he nodded, lips twitching. "That was the joke, you see. I always told the worst jokes… They killed him for no reason. If they had kept him alive longer, perhaps he would have told the truth… but he died… and the truth died with him." He paused for a long moment.

She reached for him carefully, slowly brushed the hair back from his forehead.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, and he tilted his head curiously.

"For what?"

She stared at him strangely for a moment, but finally shook her head. "Nevermind… The pictures, Jack…"

"Ah yes," he said with a smile. "McCall… he was an intelligence operative before he angered the wrong man. I'm sure if I'd cracked his head open before they did, all sorts of codes would have come tumbling out like an overturned toy box. He asked me where I might hide something, somewhere that no one would ever think to look. Really, it was all I owned… and who would want to flip through pages and pages of old pictures? Eight years of meticulous work… he translated each experiment, each formula, gave it back to me to hide away. They never found it… they never thought to look."

"But why give it to me? Surely they do more good in your possession, you can translate them aga—"

"No, I cannot," he snapped harshly and she winced as though from a blow.

"What? W-why not?"

"Because I never knew the codes. It was safer that way," he said slowly, as though speaking to a child, and her eyes burned as they filled with tears again. "Perhaps it was a mistake giving them to you."

"No! No, it wasn't! I've been working on them, I'm going to figure them out."

He settled back into the chair, face relaxing out of its former derision.

"Perhaps I wasn't wrong about you after all, Harley. You seem like a smart girl," he said, a note of question in his tone.

"Yes, I am. You needn't worry about me, Jack..."

"Didn't I tell you to call me J!?" he roared, grabbing a handful of her hair. She squeaked, struggled against him, finally froze and stared at him helplessly.

"W-what?"

"Didn't… I tell you… to call me J?"

"Y-yes… Our… our very first session… b-but… I've been calling you Jack for wee—"

She was unable to maintain her balance when he slapped her hard across the face. Her head snapped to the side and she fell in a crumpled pile upon the floor, the world swimming out of focus as her glasses skewed and then tumbled aside. The palm print grew bright upon her cheek, she could feel it burning beneath her own palm.

"Did I ask you for a fucking explanation?" he darted forward and hissed into her face. She let out another squeak, cowering from him.

"No, Mr. J," she said quickly, tensed and waiting for the next blow.

It never came. After several moments, she raised the courage to look up at him.

"Mr. J…. Oh, I like that… I like that a lot… Come here…" His hand was in her hair again, it was all she could do to keep herself from screaming as he wrenched her to her feet, dragged her close and kissed her hard. She froze in confusion, then, terrified of angering him again, thought better of it and kissed him back. His grip relaxed, hands sliding down her back and lifting her easily, flush against him. The bulge of his erection pulsed against her and she stiffened, wincing as he slammed her back against the wall.

"Mistah J," she said quickly, nails scrabbling against his chest, but he was not listening, hands already working between her legs. The silk of her panties he pulled tight until the seams tore: it hurt, it hurt, she thought, but knew better than to fight him. "J, please."

He kept one arm beneath her hips, pressed her back tight to the wall. Fingers digging into her chin, he pulled back and pressed forward: her skull cracked backward into the wall, spots swimming in her vision.

"Shut up," he whispered from between gritted teeth and she whimpered, stilling against him. Something like a purr rumbled from within his chest at her acquiescence, and his hand returned between her legs, capturing her flesh between thumb and forefinger. His sudden gentleness so strange, she went rigid but did not fight him. In a matter of minutes, it was all she could do to keep from moaning. God, how could he know her body so well already? She arched against him, gritting her teeth, breathing hard through her nose.

"Tell me what you want, little girl…"

"I want you to fuck me," she whispered, something deep within her knew what he wanted to hear and he grinned broadly at her answer.

"That is one demand I'm willing to fulfill."

He tugged the waist of his pants down just enough, and she was not ready, neither wet nor relaxed enough to take his length so quickly. It was a struggle, pressing forward with his hips and hands. She whimpered again, and he moaned with abandon, mouth pressed to her throat to muffle the sound. The friction was unbearable, muscles screaming as she was forced to take him in all at once. She bit at his collar and screamed as he pressed in to the hilt.

No, she thought, no, and then, yes, yes, this is what you wanted, wasn't it? Not like this, she thought, not like this, and her tears slid hot and fast down her face as he pulled out, and thrust in again. God, had she torn?

"Oh, Harley," he whispered against her ear, and she sobbed helplessly as his hips found a rhythm, too fast, too hard, lower back screaming as he pounded her into the wall. "Oh, baby, you're so tight," he crooned, giggled as she keened softly, teeth gritted against a scream.

"You like it, don't you?" Her lack of a response angered him: he grabbed at her clit and twisted, the surge of pain and pleasure almost indistinguishable.

She gasped, gulped, struggled against him, pressed closer and pulled away.

"Tell me you like it," he hissed into her ear, and she could not hold the tears back, no matter how hard she tried.

"I like it, I like it," she whispered and oh, god, she did, she did, didn't she? She was so wet now, his cock sliding easier and easier, so deep within her. Her body clenched around him, and he moaned again.

"Oh, that's it, baby, that's it, just like that."

This was sick, it was wrong, she thought, but fucked him back harder. She tossed her head, slamming it back against the wall again, clenched tighter around him.

"Oh, god," she whispered, unable to stop the tears as she twisted and undulated against him, moving as much as his weight would allow. He mouthed her breast through the fabric of the shirt, fumbling with the buttons: she undid them herself, tugging down the cups of her bra to free herself to his eyes. He bit into a nipple, sucking as much of her breast into his mouth as he could manage. She closed her eyes and clung to his shoulders as his hips bucked into her, again and again.

Ten minutes, then fifteen. God, she thought, how long could he last at that pace? Her lower back was bruising, she was sure of it, but he neither slowed nor lessened the force of his thrusts. His nails dug into the flesh of her hip, drawing blood and scratching away skin. She yelped and fought against him, only succeeded in pressing them closer together with each harsh, upward thrust. His fingers were working between her legs again, rubbing carefully at her clit and she stiffened, pussy tightening around his girth.

No, she thought, no, I can't come like this… not like this… this is wrong…

He kissed her roughly, uncaring of her reaction, forcing his tongue deep into her mouth, saliva smearing across her face and pumped harder, harder into her.

"Oh god, I'm gonna come," she muttered against his mouth and he wailed with laughter as she thrashed against him, world pulsing white as her muscles shuddered and tightened and coaxed him in deeper. He pressed his hands to her shoulders, leaning back briefly to watch his cock sliding in and out, her pussy twitching around him. His rhythm changed, chaotic and disordered, he threw his head back and groaned deeply, slammed her tight against the wall as warmth filled her, leaking onto her inner thighs as he pressed close, holding himself deep within her until she felt his cock softening, slipping from her finally. She whimpered as he left her, muscles still shuddering and she felt stretched open and so empty, so empty.

She nearly fell as he let go of her, hips screaming now from their rough treatment: he laughed as she stumbled and finally righted herself. He grabbed her by the jaw and forced her posture straight, the back of her head pressed to the wall again.

"You're mine," he whispered, "Do you understand me?"

"Yes," she said quickly, wincing as his fingertips dug in further.

"No one will ever touch you again, do you hear me? You are mine, and mine alone." There was something cold pressed to her cheek, a flash of silver and oh, Jesus Christ he had a knife! Where in the _fuck_ had he gotten a knife from!? She tossed her head in her terror and his grip tightened; it seemed her jaw would shatter beneath the force of it.

"Ah, ta, ta, I wouldn't move if I were you…" The blade slid between her lips, he giggled as he shook his wrist, the blade tapping against her teeth, nicking her gums. "I'm a little highly strung these days, little shaky, wouldn't want me to slip, would you? No… Now… where was I? Oh… that's right… I ever… _ever_ catch anyone else touching you… I'll make you look just like me, do you understand? Do you understand!?" He screamed into her face and she whimpered.

"I understand," she mumbled around the blade, and her blood ran warm down her chin as the blade dug into the corner of her mouth.

"Good girl… and just to make sure that you understand that…" He pulled it from her mouth, catching her bottom lip, cutting there as well. Suddenly the blade was at her chest, carving in deep, and he clapped a hand over her mouth as she screamed and fought against him. Oh god, he was cutting down to the bone, she could feel the grind of the metal against her sternum as he cut again and again, each deeper than the first. She screamed again, helplessly muffled, the tears running anew, sliding down her throat and stinging in the incisions.

He'll kill me, she thought, he's going to kill me.

Just as it had began, it ended. The blood dripped down her stomach, pooling in the waistband of the skirt: her thighs felt wet with his cooling seed and he lowered his head, tongue lapping gently at her wounded breast.

"There… now all the world… will know you're mine," he leaned back, admiring his handiwork and she finally looked down. There between her breasts, his mark.

The severed, swollen tissue formed a perfect letter J.


	25. Chapter 18: Small Comfort

She swallowed, breathed, felt her knees shaking beneath the weight of her body. She felt so weak, yet somehow she felt as though she had never been stronger. A scar, she thought a scar to match his own. She was marked, branded as his property, and her heart soared at the thought of it.

She resolved then and there to keep the knowledge of it a secret.

Pamela would never understand. She would bristle at the very thought of being owned, but not Harley, no. Harley had never felt so happy, so loved, so blissful. He loves me, she thought, he does, he must, or he wouldn't have cared enough to show the world that I belong to him. The wound was pounding, pulsing with the beat of her heart, the blood flowing steadily, drying sticky and thick along the edges. She needed stitches, she thought, but could not convince her feet to move.

No, Pam would never understand the elation, the release, the ecstasy amidst the agony, to be content to give as much as he needed to take; the ultimate sacrifice for her God-upon-earth: her pain for his pleasure. Her eyelids fluttered, she felt faint and the world seemed misty and far away…

She awoke without realizing her eyes had closed at all.

There was something soft beneath her, warm hands gentle on her skin and a steady, stinging throb of pain. Her eyes opened slowly. The blinds had been shut, the desk lamp turned on; the walls seemed close, and her tiny office now seemed cozy. As she became more aware of her surroundings, she realized that she had been wrapped in the silver emergency blanket from her first aid kit, and there was a gentle weight upon her breast. She struggled to bring her eyes to focus and found a pair of hands upon her chest, a shining, curved needle and string of suture steady in his hands.

He smiled softly as his eyes met hers and she smiled weakly in return.

"You're awake. Perhaps I do like working with human skin," he said, voice barely more than a whisper, and she hissed softly as the needle dipped beneath her flesh once more.

"I love you," she blurted suddenly, and a smile tugged at his lips again.

"Of course you do," he answered smoothly, and she laughed softly, eyes closing. "Are you going to faint again? At least you're lying down this time. You know, if you had wanted to hurt yourself, you could have just asked me to do it."

"You'd have been glad to oblige me, Captain?"

"Oh yes," he breathed, and she chuckled again, fighting to relax beneath his ministrations.

"I found a pair of clothing in the closet."

"APFT is next week," she answered, eyes opening. "I've an appointment on Wednesday."

"Ah, well, you'll need another pair later, because you've had a silly little accident, and made a terrible mess of your lovely dress clothes. You've fainted, you see, and spilled coffee all down the front of yourself. You will tell that to anyone who questions your disregard of dress code. You're going to change, and then you are going to the cafeteria. You've lost a good deal of blood. You're going to buy a glass of orange juice, and a slice of cake from the line in the cafeteria. From there, you will visit the dispensary. The morning shift's nurse's name is Debra, and you will tell her that you are flowing very heavily, and require an iron injection lest you faint again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she mumbled sleepily. "You think of everything, Mistah J."

He tied off the suture, clipped it neatly near the skin, tucked the shears back into their pack, and threw away the needle. He smiled again as he turned back to her, and she beamed as his thumb stroked along the crest of her cheekbone.

"Stick with me, Harley-girl," he whispered. "Daddy will take care of everything."

OOO

She visited the dispensary first. She felt guilty for not following his instructions more closely, but resolved that, as the dispensary was closer than the cafeteria and she still felt rather weak, that he would understand her reasoning. The nurse behind the counter (her name tag did in fact read Debra, she marveled) looked at her strangely as she stepped before her.

"It's been a terrible morning," Harley said, with great gravity. "I spilled coffee all over myself, my clothes are an utter mess, and I'm afraid I'm going to fall over again."

"What?" Debra asked, looking quite concerned. "Why? What happened?"

"I haven't been keeping a close watch on my blood work this week. I've a tendency to become anemic, and I got my little visitor this week, you know…"

"Ahh," the brunette said, nodding importantly. "I just got off mine. Come back here, and I'll fix you right up."

"Thank you," Harley said, honestly, and stepped behind the counter.

Fifteen minutes later, she padded comfortably down the hallway in her favorite pair of running shoes and sweats, a hand absently tracing the square of gauze that lay beneath the sweatshirt, covering the sutures that so elegantly curved through her skin. She covered it with her palm, felt the beat of her heart, pounding for him and him alone.

The cafeteria had emptied of the last of the breakfast stragglers, and was only just gearing for lunch. She grabbed a piece of fresh chocolate cake, and a plastic cup filled with orange juice, the bowl of ice it sat in now little more than cool water. At least the juice was still a little cold, she thought as she paid for her meager sustenance, and turned to find a seat.

"What happened to you?" a voice said from behind her shoulder, and she turned to face its owner. "You look like you've seen a ghost, kid."

She smiled softly as she realized who it was.

"Captain Knauer," she said warmly, and he smiled in return.

"Well, it's nice to see you, too… Doesn't answer my question though."

"Woman troubles," she said, raising a slender hand to her mouth conspiratorially. "I fainted this morning."

"That's no good," he frowned.

"I'm alright," she assured him. "But I don't suppose you have any idea how to get coffee out of white silk, do you?"

He shrugged absently, falling into step beside her as she made her way to a table.

"Club soda, best I can figure. Club soda'll take anything out."

She grinned a little. "Never would have figured you for Mr. Homemaker."

He laughed. "Hey, you spend enough years living alone, you learn how to take care of yourself. Besides… I got that little tidbit from a nurse. Said her stain brigade consisted of club soda and hydrogen peroxide. Never wondered how they get the blood out of those little white uniforms?"

"Oh, I've wondered," she laughed as she sat down. "I've just never taken the time to ask."

"Just gossip with them, huh?"

She grinned.

"Anyway," he said, as he rounded the table and sat down across from her. "I've got some news for you."

She raised her eyebrows, and he nodded.

"A new development. I've found… what I believe… to be the first formula."

"Formula?"

"Yeah… It's like… a mathematical problem with letters and numbers, an equation that you can put a phrase through, and it comes out in code… Works the same way in reverse. If you take the code, and put it through the formula, it comes out making sense."

"So, what's the problem?"

"Problem is… there's at least fifteen separate formulas that I've picked up on so far… Like I said, I think I've found the first one."

"A code within a code?" she said wonderingly.

"Within a code, within a code," he nodded, leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Whatever you've got there, it's high military… Wasn't an amateur that did this."

She licked her lips. "You can't tell anyone about this," she said quietly, glancing up from her plastic plate as she pulled back the shrink wrap.

"I haven't… Scout's honor," he grinned, and she relaxed a little. "It's a lot of work… it'd be easier if it wasn't just me doing it."

She arched an eyebrow, taking a bite of her cake. Mmm, delicious… It tasted twice as good with the knowledge of why she needed it… A reward, even, a reward for her sacrifice.

"What about three people doing it?"

"What?"

"Do you have a piece of paper, a pen perhaps?"

He did, in fact, a notepad and pen in his back pocket. She wrote upon it for a minute.

"Here, this is my number. I have a friend that I can trust… The three of us together, we might be able to make a significant dent in the translation."

"Alright," he said, and nodded. "Don't suppose you're ever going to tell me where you got this from?"

"If I told you that, I'd have to kill you," she said seriously, a small smile on her lips. His gaze remained focused on her eyes however, and his expression said he was not entirely sure that she was joking.

She wasn't.

"Fair enough… How are things going with you and the Pyscho?"

"He's _not_ crazy," she snapped.

"Mentally ill," he said, "Excuse me if I'm a little less than sensitive regarding the man who tried to crack my skull open on a concrete wall."

She sighed, squeezing her eyes shut for a long moment.

"I'm sorry," she said, after some time.

He shook his head when her eyes focused upon his again.

"No, I'm sorry… I understand. You're very dedicated to your work."

"We're making progress," she said quickly. "In his therapy," she added, almost as an afterthought.

"That's good," he nodded, after a pause of his own. "If anyone can fix him, kid, it's you. You're the only one who could care enough to do it."

OOO

His words echoed in her mind as she left the hospital that evening with her clothes in a plastic bag, and returned the truck to the Isley Nursery parking lot. Pam, luckily, had already left for the day. Harley was not looking forward to the tongue-lashing she was sure to receive for the stained clothing. The shirt was just fine, but there was blood in the fabric of the skirt, though perhaps the black did enough to hide that.

She spoke briefly with Anna, Pamela's front desk girl, returned the keys to her, and walked to the sidewalk and the bus stop there. Her fingers again found the square of gauze beneath her clothing as she waited.

She had hit the time just right, and she was not long in waiting for the bus. She found her seat, and dozed lightly for the twenty minutes it took to arrive to her destination. From there, it was a ten minute walk to MacArthur Place and her housing complex. She made it just in time, for the sky had taken on an ominous gray cast. A storm was coming.

There was another man behind the front desk, one she did not recognize, so she gave him a courteous nod, but did not speak. Her mail, two days worth, she pulled from her box, and entered the elevator. As nice as Pamela's house was the night had been far from relaxing, it would be nice to spend a night in her very own bed without having to sleep with one eye open.

She made short work of the hallway between the elevator and her apartment, and tucked her bag and briefcase under her arm as she unlocked the door.

"Home sweet home," she breathed as she crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her, dropping her burdens in the front hall. She headed for the living room and sank onto the couch, closing her eyes and sprawling across the cushions.

Her instinct registered the grate and click of a round being chambered before her mind fully understood what her ears had just heard. Her legs tensed to dart to safety, but the barrel had already made contact, pressed to the hollow of her skull, just above her spinal cord: a point blank shot that was meant to kill the instant she resisted.

"You put your hands in the air, Lieutenant. We have orders for your arrest."

OOO

Chapter End Notes:

APFT stands for Army Physical Fitness Test.


	26. Interlude 5: Capture

_Oh Jesus._

"I said put your hands on your head."

She'd hesitated a moment too long. She raised her arms, laced her fingers behind her head and waited.

"Are you armed, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir, I'm not," she said carefully. There was movement to the right, the same Major who had been stationed at the front door when she'd made her escape.

_You should have never come home, you idiot…You should have known they were still looking for you!_

"Stand up slowly." She did so and the Beretta followed her. The Major stepped forward and did a quick body search. His hands remained strictly to code. Harley would have popped in the mouth for anything less, resisting arrest or not, and he looked like he knew it, too. Her right hand itched… she would have given anything for the opportunity.

"She's clear," he responded, and the barrel finally stopped digging into the back of her skull.

"Put your hands behind your back."

The instinct to run took her for a moment, but she resisted, and did as she was told.

"What am I being arrested for?" she asked.

He clipped the handcuffs on tight, and spun her around.

"That's what we're going to find out."

A left hook sent her sprawling, and the world quickly disappeared.

OOO

_Oh Jesus._

It was quickly becoming a mantra within her mind.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her jaw carefully, opening and closing it, wincing as she wiggled it back and forth.

_Not broken,_ she thought, _Now… where in the hell am I?_

A table, two chairs, a long mirror along the right wall.

"Great…" An interrogation room.

There was a security camera in one corner of the ceiling, the little red light blinking on and off. The handcuffs were still in place, her hands before her now, but she'd already figured as much upon waking.

"Bastard hit me," she muttered. _Son of a bitch._

Things were indeed going downhill, faster than she could have ever imagined. It was definitely not necessary force to knock the living hell out of the criminal in custody, which meant only one thing…

_They're with the Elite, with-_

"Hello, Ms. Quinzel."

She had not registered the sound of the door opening and closing, yet there he stood behind her, the silver eagle of his station polished to gleaming on his immaculate Class A's.

_Stiffen that lip, Harley-girl,_ a familiar voice whispered in her mind. _It won't do to show weakness in front of him._

"Oh," she said, attempting to feign disinterest. "It's you… I should have known."

_I already did…_

"You don't sound happy to see me, Lieutenant, I'm disappointed."

"You poor thing," she said nastily, a sneer curling her lips back from her teeth.

"Now, there's no need to be rude. I just brought you here so we might have a little talk together, privately."

"Is that why your man tried to take my head off?"

"Well, I couldn't risk your identifying our exact location now, could I? We might have put your head in a bag, but I'm afraid that has rather nasty connotations these days, don't you think?"

He crossed the room smoothly, and she had the absurd thought to check to see if he were on wheels. He sat in the chair across from her, folding his long fingered hands gracefully upon the table top.

"But now that we're alone together, free of his influence, I suppose we might be able to get somewhere."

"His influence?"

His own smile took a nasty turn.

"Don't play coy with me, Lieutenant, it's not going to work."

"Can't blame a girl for trying," she answered.

"Now… what I want to know… is what you know."

"About what?"

His teeth gritted together, she swore she could hear the grind of them as his jaw clenched.

"I want to know what he has told you."

"I don't know what good that's going to do. You could've just checked his file, all of my notes are there."

He frowned deeply.

"The file is missing, Dr. Quinzel."

"Oh dear," she said, lips pursing in mock-concern. "Just how closely have you been watching his movements?" she laughed. "Obviously not very well."

His fists were clenching along with his jaw now.

"Look, I don't know what you think is going on between us, but I can assure that it was perfectly above bar. I'm just his psychiatrist, I listen to his problems, his history, I offer him insight into his behavior, I offer him comfort, and a way to work through his own neuroses and find a way out of the psychosis that has gripped him since the attack that was made upon his person. I don't know what information you're looking for, but I don't think I know it."

"You're smart," he said after a moment.

"Why, thank you," she said, icily.

"But obviously not smart enough to figure out that it would be a lot easier on you if you just told the truth. What is he offering you? What can he possibly give you that I cannot?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Colonel… You can badger me all you want, but you can't make me confess something I have no knowledge of."

"I have reason to believe otherwise, Dr. Quinzel."

"Oh, I'm sure you do. I would certainly hope that you wouldn't just drag me in here, slinging around wild accusations that I'm involved in some sort of plot with one of my patients? I mean, surely you have hard evidence?"

His jaw clenched tighter, she noted triumphantly.

"Or perhaps not? Well, if you have no evidence… and speaking of, what exactly have I been arrested for? If you have no evidence, then am I to believe that you are holding me without formal charges? Isn't that just a touch illegal?" she raised her eyebrows coyly.

"Stop playing with me," he growled.

"Oh, I haven't even started playing, Colonel… we're just having a serious conversation is all… Not much fun in that. Let's talk about something a little more interesting like… when am I going to be given my phone call? When can I speak to my lawyer? What exactly are the charges being leveled against me? I mean, I could go on and on, but maybe you can answer just one of my questions, since I'm no good at answering yours."

"I'm supposed to believe he's told you nothing."

"Oh no, you shouldn't believe that. He's told me plenty of things… he's told me, for instance, that he had a puppy when he was five years old, that he grew up in Gotham, that his mother was a waitress… It's my job, after all, to listen to what he tells me, but I don't see how any of that is going to help you out."

His fists clenched tighter: she imagined his hand cracking and crumbling beneath the force of it like powdered glass. She licked her lips, darted her eyes back to his.

"But just because I don't know anything now, doesn't mean I can't learn something later…" she looked at him slyly, a little smile curving her lips. "If you would… tell me what I'm looking for, for instance."

It was his turn to sneer.

"If you haven't learned what I need to know by now, what makes you think you can learn it later?"

"Oh," she said quietly, carefully lowering her lashes. "I can be very persuasive," she purred, eyes focused tightly on his. His pupils were dilated. _Yes!_ "And I think you know that."

"What are you suggesting?" he asked flatly.

"What I am suggesting, Colonel, is that we could work together… You see, I get tired of dealing with these people, trundling in and out of my office everyday, listening to their problems and their pasts… it all gets so tiring… The longer I look around me, the more I think that position in Psy-Op's is looking better and better. All those years of schooling, yet all I hear day in and day out is 'Ooh, I've lost a leg, ooh, I've lost an arm, ooh I was captured and tortured,' it's just so _booring._ You see… you're my ticket out of here," she smiled broadly at him, watching him from beneath lowered lashes.

He relaxed. _Men,_ she thought disdainfully, _they'll believe anything with a pair of tits._

"We might have a mutually beneficial relationship, Colonel. I so look forward to working… umm… _with_ you," she gave a little giggle, and he smiled in return.

"So, we have an agreement, Doctor?"

"Ooh, yes," she crooned, "I think we do... Now…what do you know that I don't?"


	27. Chapter 19: Lost in Translation

Author's Chapter Notes:

This is a short part, but like Avoidance, is more linking than stand-alone.

OOO

"You know, I think this time a blindfold ought to suffice," she said nastily, as she exited the interrogation room.

It wasn't particularly identifiable, she noted, it could have been an administration building on any base in the US. There was no real telling exactly where they were beyond the fact she was certain they were at least somewhere near the city. She couldn't have been passed out long enough to go any farther than that.

"Do you really need one?" The Colonel asked, an eyebrow arched.

She shrugged indifferently. "Well, you were the one who was ever so concerned with security earlier." She gave him a sweet smile.

He had not told her much, to her great relief. They knew that they had been given a password, that the system had been opened. Upon their first attempt to copy the system, the entire thing went haywire and deleted itself. She had known as much from Mr. J, though she certainly did not tell him that. She had only listened carefully, looked as though all this information was quite new to her, and vowed to begin working her way toward pumping the information out of him.

"I don't care what you have to do to get him to talk, Lieutenant. We've discovered that torture is obviously not the method of choice… Though… I haven't gotten a hold of him yet…" he laughed softly, and she joined him, keeping that lowered-lash gaze he enjoyed so much pinned to his.

_Bastard,_ she thought.

"I think I might have some methods that you have not yet utilized… Little things I picked up in med school," she gave him a wink, and followed her escort out of the building.

It was a 45 minute drive back into the city. She was amazed she hadn't woken in the vehicle. _Chloroform?_ she wondered, staring at the landscape as it streamed past: farmland, to suburb, to city. She had never been gladder to find her block of apartment buildings looming on the horizon as she was at this moment.

She completely ignored the driver upon exiting the vehicle, giving him a dismissive wave as she exited. She slowed her feet to a walk as she entered the building, watching as her shadow cut swathes through the yellow streetlight, but cut to a sprint as soon as she was out of his sight. She did not bother to wait for the elevator, and instead went straight for the stairs. The exercise did her good, cleared her mind, her heart pounding in her chest as she rounded the last corner, climbed the last flight.

_I need to get in touch with Pamela…_

She passed the same unfortunate Staff Sergeant in the hallway as she exited the stairwell, (he gave her a dirty look as she passed.) However, she paid little attention to him and instead made her way straight to her apartment. Her front door had been left closed but not locked.

_It's half a wonder I didn't get robbed… Bastards…_ she thought again, and shut the door behind her.

A quick search of the apartment revealed everything to be in its proper place, and it did not look as though anything had been taken. She made her way into the kitchen, pulled the cordless off of the wall, and immediately dialed Pam's number.

"Hello?"

"Pamela, I need—"

_What if they've tapped my phone, or bugged the room? They've been in my apartment, unwatched, they could have done anything!_

"Harley? Harley, is that you? Harley, talk to me!"

"It's okay, Pammy… it's me. I think its time for that drink we were talking about earlier."

"Wha—"

"You know, when we went out to dinner last time," she said, a tad forcefully, and Pamela got the hint.

"Oh," Pam said after a moment, "Yeah, I remember. The really terrible Chicken Alfredo they gave us?"

"Let's not go there this time, okay?"

"Alright… I'll be over in a little bit…"

"Thanks, Pam," she said meaningfully, and hung up the phone.

She headed to her bedroom, and quickly changed out of the jogging suit she still wore, into a pair of jeans and a nice top, something she might wear when going out, should anyone be watching her movements. The answering machine on her nightstand was blinking. One message, the screen displayed. She sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the button. He'd called less than an hour ago, the machine said.

"Hey, kid, it's Wilhelm. I'm calling you like you said. I found another—" she quickly pressed the delete button.

"Star… 69…" she muttered as she pressed the buttons. The phone rang once, twice…

"Yello?"

"Wilhelm, it's Harleen."

"Hey, kid," he said jovially.

"Are you busy tonight?"

"Unless you count watching House, not really…"

"I need you to meet me somewhere."

"You okay, kid?"

She smiled softly, shook her head though he could not see it. "I'm fine, Wilhelm… Do you have a pen and paper?"

"Yeah… gimme a second… Alright…"

"The address is 3592 West Oak Avenue. Do you know where that is?"

"That's on the outskirts of town, right?"

"Yes," she answered. "Could you meet me there in about an hour?"

"Sure… I got Tivo… Sounds like a plan, kid."

"Thank you, Wilhelm."

OOO

"Open up, you dumb blonde." The front door berated her. It took a moment to undo all the locks (she was feeling just a bit paranoid at the moment) and she quickly raised a finger to her lips as she opened the door. Pamela stared at her strangely, but did not say anything. She grabbed her purse from the living room, exited the apartment, and locked the door behind her. She did not speak until they were well on their way to the elevator.

"What the hell is going on, Harley?" Pam asked, once the doors had closed. "Are you running from the cops again? What in the hell happened to your face?"

"Hopefully we won't have to do that anytime soon, Pam." She shook her head. "Nevermind that… Do you remember the photo albums that I left in your attic?"

"Yeah?"

"On the backs of the photos, there are codes… Mr… I mean… Jack was a chemist for the Army, he worked in Weapons Development before they sent him to Iraq… on the backs of those photos, is all of his work, eight years worth of it. Everything that he's ever created for the US Army is in those pages."

"Holy shit," Pam breathed.

"Yeah," Harley answered. "When he was captured and tortured, it was by his own people, and that's what they were looking for, the information necessary to access those records. He gave them to me for safekeeping, to translate them."

"Jesus Christ, Harley!" Pam yelled as the elevator door slid open, and the front desk stranger gave them a dirty look as they exited. Harley glared right back as they walked past. She grabbed Pam by the arm, and dragged her out of the building.

"I called a friend of mine, Wilhelm Knauer, he's the head of Security at Hines. I gave him copies of the codes, and he's been working on them for me, working to translate them."

"Jesus," Pam said again, "Do you know what in the hell you've gotten yourself involved in? This is some serious shit, you can't mess with the Army like this, you're going to get burned."

Harley shook her head. "I haven't got any choice, Pamela. I have to do this."

She set her jaw as Pam stared at her. The redhead eventually relented, and unlocked the door of her Corvette. Harleen slid inside, and shut the door behind her.

"You're getting me involved in this stuff, I'm gonna wake up one day with a gun in my face, God, I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered as she clipped her seatbelt and shut the door.

Harley smiled softly, listening to her friend grumble. For all of her prickly exterior, she was as soft as butter on the inside. Never had Harleen ever had a more loyal friend than she had in Pamela.

The trip to the outside of town was spent largely in silence, watching the darkened landscape pass outside of her window, with only an occasional mutter from Pamela breaking the quiet.

"Who the hell is that?" Pam asked as she slowed to turn into her driveway. Harleen, however, recognized the truck and the tall, thin form standing beside it.

"Don't worry," she said, shaking her head. "He's a friend."

Pamela came to a stop and Harleen smiled as she exited the car.

"Thank you for coming here, Wilhelm."

"Yeah, kid, sure," he nodded with a smile.

Pamela gave him a distrustful look, watching him carefully as she exited the vehicle.

"Wilhelm, this is Pamela."

"Nice to meet you," Pam muttered but didn't take his hand until Harleen elbowed her in the ribs. They stood in the twilight, one looking to the other, until finally Wilhelm spoke.

"What do you say we take this little party inside?"

OOO

Four hours later, the clock rang had rung midnight and then surpassed it, and Harley was certain that here eyes were going to melt right out of her head. She rubbed them carefully, saw stars before them. Pam slumped backward in her chair, but Wilhelm was still bent dutifully over his sheaves of paper. They had succeeded in translating only half of the pages.

"Jesus," Pam muttered, "I can't take this anymore… letters and numbers, letters and numbers. I translate the damn things, and they still come out making no sense."

"They make perfect sense," Wilhelm answered, shaking his head in disbelief. "I mean, look at this formula right here. This one is an airborne toxin capable of causing heightened levels of euphoria, advanced muscular contractions resembling grand mal seizure, eventually resulting in muscle stiffening akin to rigor mortis all while delivering an acute anti-coagulant effect. Jesus Christ… Anyone who is exposed to this gas… they laugh themselves to death… They _die_ laughing. What kind of mind comes up with stuff like this? This is amazing… People would kill to get their hands on this sort of thing…"

Harleen shook her head for a moment, watching him solemnly.

"They already have, Wilhelm…"


	28. Chapter 20: Serious Game

She had spent yet another night away from home. Pamela woke earlier than usual and gave her a lift to the hospital.

"You be careful," she said as Harley exited the vehicle.

"Sure, Red, always," she smiled, but received a scowl for all her best efforts.

"I'm not joking, you blonde twit, keep an eye out. This is a serious game you're playing. The quickest way to get hurt is to try and double cross the double crossers."

She tossed a hand flippantly as she crossed in front of the vehicle.

"I know what I'm doing, Pamela, he doesn't suspect a thing."

"Don't crow so loudly, Harl, you'd be surprised how fast fate will kick you in the ass."

"I know what I'm doing," she repeated, leaning through the driver's side window and kissing her friend on the cheek. She continued to glower at her, however.

"Famous last words," Pamela yelled as she drove away.

Harley shook her head. Perhaps she was being over-confident? But all men were the same really. It wasn't hard to figure out the way to a man's heart… You just had to figure out what he wanted, and most men wanted one thing, she'd discovered. The Colonel was not so different. Not like her Jack, ever unpredictable. What did the Colonel want? Power and obedience. As long as he continued to believe that she would obey him unconditionally, as long as it appeared that the balance of power was in his favor, she was safe. She was to give him no reason to doubt her. If she stayed beneath his radar, attracted no undue notice then she could carry out her plan in peace.

First things first, she must find a way to get him out of the hospital. From there, she must have reliable transportation: an escape route and destination, a safe harbor. They must go as far away from the city as possible. But where could they be safe from the government, where could they hide from the Army? Somewhere densely populated, somewhere they could disappear. _Like Gotham City,_she thought. She didn't find the idea all together appealing, but she was willing to make sacrifices. True love always required sacrifices. She would be willing to do such a thing for him.

Her chest hurt, heart twisting upon itself, her stomach fluttering at just the thought of laying beside him in the dark, all alone and not a thread between them.. What a privilege that would be. Living on the streets, even, homeless fugitives, refugees from the law, whatever it took, she would do that thing just for the chance to stay by his side.

The clouds hung close to the morning horizon, dampening the red of the sun, but no, not her mood. All would end well, she felt sure of that. How could true love do anything but triumph?

_But didn't_ he _love him truly?_

"Shut up," she muttered, jumped at the sound a moment later. _Think of something better… and for God's sake don't start talking to yourself, you sound like a crazy person!_

She listened to the steady tap of her heels upon the concrete, counting in her head as she went. She found it soothing, and soon… her fingertips tingled at the thought of his face, so handsome, those strong arms wrapped tight around her.

"I love you," he would whisper, finally saying it. "You thought of all this yourself?" He would be ever so proud of her, scarcely able to believe what she had accomplished. Once they were rid of this place, rid of these trappings, then they would start their new life together.

Never alone again, oh, her heart leapt at the very thought. She pulled her compact from her purse, pausing in the humid morning to check her face and hair. Her clothing was just a little too tight, heels a little too high. If she was going to succeed in this, she had to give every impression of acting upon his intention. She must appear to be extracting information from the Captain without his knowing. If need be, she must… 'seduce' him!

She laughed out loud before she could stop herself. It echoed off the nearby cars and she jumped again. Dear god, why was she so nervous? Why was she so turned on!?

Her skin was perfect, lips a bit darker than usual. The tiny, superficial wounds he'd bestowed with the strange knife (it had a hollow in the center of the blade… she'd never seen the like before) were easy enough to hide beneath her lipstick. Her blouse collar was high enough to cover the wound on her chest (she'd taken ever so much care with the wound, terrified of marring his handiwork.) All other marks remained invisible beneath fabric and makeup.

She winked at her reflection and closed her compact with a snap, sliding it back into her bag.

"Here goes nothing, girls…"

OOO

She passed Wilhelm in the hallway. He offered a courteous nod, but did not stop. He looked sleepy, yet vaguely triumphant. Another session like the night before and their work would be done. Once Jack was away from the hospital, she could return the pages to their rightful owner. From there… what? People would kill for the information she possessed. Perhaps she could sell it? Her chest clenched again, _treason_ echoed in her mind, but her will was as steel: there was no going back now. Besides, how bad was the second betrayal in a string of lies, deceit, murders?

Nothing she did from this point forward would be as evil as the atrocities already committed. Everything that followed would be vengeance. He could not strike back now, but she could, and she vowed to make them _pay_ for how he had been hurt.

_Mr. J… My Mr. J…_ she thought, giggling quietly to herself. Even the sound of his name caused her pulse to quicken. She was glad no one was near to hear her moment of self-indulgence and quickly schooled her features to serious as she walked the last few feet to the end of her hallway.

"Now that's how every man ought to start his morning, with a pretty lady," she heard as she rounded the corner.

"Private," she grinned, eyebrows arched.

"I swear, you just get finer every day."

"You say that every time you see me," she laughed, and he fell in beside her, arms keeping rhythm with her feet. "Aren't you going to think of a new line?"

He laughed softly. "Oh, you wound me, _mi dulce_, my heart is bleeding."

"Anymore melodramatic and you would be in a silent movie."

She listened to the steady hiss of his wheels on the tile. He grinned at her sideways.

"You just want to burn me up today."

"You set yourself up for it, Nunez."

"Fair enough," he grinned, and his eyebrows arched higher.

"Did you just wake up this morning and say, this seems like a good day to pester Dr. Quinzel?"

"I can't have just woken up this morning wanting to talk to somebody?"

She frowned softly. "Are you serious, Private? You haven't made an appointment…"

"Dead serious, doc, cross my heart and hope to die… I just need to talk to somebody."

_What is he playing at?_ she thought. She glanced at her watch, looking back to him.

"I have thirty minutes until my first appointment. If you really must talk to me." She turned away from him, spun through her ring of keys, unlocked her office door, holding it open as he wheeled himself inside. She set her things upon her desk. He stopped before the bookcase, reached out and ran his finger down the spine of a book that read "Self Esteem in Psychoanalysis." She waited in silence for sometime, but he began before she could speak herself.

"You ever lost any family, Doctor?" he asked, pulling the book free and tossing it from hand to hand.

"My mother, father, and brother are all dead."

"I'm sorry," he said honestly, and she nodded as she took a seat.

"I had a brother… twin brother…" he said, after a moment.

"Eduardo Nunez?" she asked softly.

He looked surprised for a moment.

"How'd you know?"

"The Captain has told me about him. He was a Demolitions specialist, wasn't he?"

"Sure was," he affirmed. "He made Captain, but they bumped him back again… fucked off too much. They busted me all the way back to Private, sent us both to Iraq to serve. Over there, I was an APC mechanic, took care of forty or fifty of the damn things all by myself. It was the first time in my life I'd ever been away from my brother. We slept in the same bed till we were ten, for God's sake. Then, all of a sudden, the best I can hope for is a letter or two. We were real close, you know, Eddie and me, thick as thieves, right?

"So one day, we're on the Uzem road… truck hits this IED… coffee can…bottom's armored, you know, we get burnt, but we're alive. Jordan, up front, he's on fire, not too good at driving… He tries to bring it back on the road, but the tires are spinning, and he just can't get it back under control. It flips, lands in a canal. I fall out the window, and it lands on me… I mean… the roof…it's on my legs." He went silent for a moment, staring at the casts as though he had never before seen them.

"Private? Are you alright?" she asked softly.

He shook his head, the first frown she had ever seen blooming upon his lips.

"The water's so muddy," he said with difficulty. "I can't see anything, can't breathe, and all I can think about is the pain, and I'm wondering if I'm crippled maybe, I'm wondering if I'm dying, and then I'm not thinking much at all cause everything starts to go black…" he trailed off again, stared pensively at the floor.

"It's just dark for so long, dark and quiet, and I feel like there's light out there and I just can't find it… and then I breathe. I wake up in a hospital in Baghdad, and one day this guy comes, this MP with a letter and I think no, no, can't be, not Eddie. He must have the wrong guy, cause there's no way my brother can be dead when I'm alive. We said we were gonna live forever. And you know what he tells me? He looks at me, and he tells me that Eddie died the same day as my accident, but Hannaford…he drug me out of that carrier… Saved my life that day… that day Eddie died.

"Two weeks later they sent me here, and one day I hear about a guy who's been all cut up, shrapnel maybe, torture, sure… Guy's Spec-Ops after all, lost his whole team over there. I hear that things aren't going well for him. They've got him on life support, so one day I go to visit. The nurses don't want to let me in. I don't know the guy, after all, don't even know his name, don't know a thing more than he was maybe the last person to see my brother alive."

His hands shook, his breathing had picked up.

"Eddie talked about him in his letters, said he was a genius, best damn thing the Army could offer the world, yeah? So one day I visit him, sweet talk my way past the nurse, and I sit beside him, and I say 'If you let those bastards win, then you're not half the man my brother said you were. You can't let them break you. You can't,' I say, and the nurses come to escort me out because all I can do is yell it over and over again. I can't help him, he's the last face my brother saw, and maybe if I can just save him, maybe it will make up for my brother, for how I couldn't save him. Maybe I can go to sleep one night without the dreams. He doesn't move, and they make me leave.

"The next day, this nurse comes to me and she goes 'What did you do to him?' and my heart sinks. I think he's dead, I killed him, so I just stare at her. She just looks back at me and finally she goes 'Come with me.' I don't think I'm in a position to argue, so I just do as she says and follow along. She takes me back to his room and points me to the monitor. 'What looks different?' she asks. His pulse looks stronger, I tell her. 'He came out of the coma last night… so what did you do to him?'"

"That's an amazing story, Private."

"Not amazing. Just natural. Do you believe in serendipity, Doctor?"

"Do I believe in what?"

"Serendipity. It's the nature of the universe, the little coincidences that make the world go round. My brother died so that I could save him. That's what I mean by serendipity, Doctor. Some things are just meant to be."

She nodded. His eyes, finally focusing on her face, softened, sure now that she understood.

"I got a present for you, Doc. From J-Boy."

She raised her eyebrows carefully.

"A present?"

"Yeah… Here you go."

The small package he tossed her had been wrapped in a large square of dressing, tied shut with a medical tape 'ribbon'. She laughed, flipping the box in her hands, finally pulling a pair of scissors from her desk drawer and clipping the tape.

A small box lay in her hand as she pulled the gauze free. She looked back to Nunez.

"That right there is Jack's favorite pack of cards."

"His favorite?"

"He wanted you to have it."

She opened the flaps slowly, pulled the cards free. The first card, the Jack of Hearts had been written upon.

_Be careful… The walls have ears._

Nunez stared at her meaningfully.

"Thank you," she said softly, and pressed the cards to her heart.

"He appreciates what you do for him," he whispered. "He cares about you. He never says anything, but a guy's got a way of knowing, you see. Just… maybe he's not always the best at saying what he means, you know? Just keep that in mind, Doc."


	29. Chapter 21: Realization

Her heart never failed to lift the moment he entered the room.

She gave him a radiant smile as he closed the door behind him and crossed the few feet to his chair. She pushed a card across the desk as he sat.

"Good morning, Captain, I trust that you are well today."

"As well as can be expected," he said flippantly, and turned the card over.

'Bugs?' she had written in the white portions of the card. He nodded, reached his hand out, requesting a pen. She hurried to find one for him, and placed it in his outstretched palm.

"I thought that today, Captain, we might break things up a bit and try something different. Today, I would like to conduct a few simple tests, with your permission, of course. "

His hand darted out, pushing the card back across the desktop toward her.

'Nubby saw them,' he had written in his familiar, hurried scrawl.

She nodded.

"Some of the head-shrinker's du jour, Doc?"

She smiled softly. "Yes, Captain, I must admit they are popular tests among doctors, but only because of their usefulness. Everything we do is simply to provide better insight into your inner workings, if you will."

"If you wanted to get to know me _better_," he purred, "all you had to do was ask, sugar."

Absurdly, she found herself blushing furiously, could not suppress the reaction, and groped blindly for her pen.

"Captain, that is inappropriate," she said, by rote.

He laughed heartily, and she wrote 'Thinking about leaving,' across a new card.

"Don't give me that line, Doctor, I see how you look at me."

_They're listening!_ she thought indignantly, he simply grinning in return.

'What?' he had written.

A vitriolic "Captain!" was all she could manage. This was just the sort of show they needed to present.

'Gotham City?' she scribbled, 'Lots of people. Disappear.' She pushed the card before him again.

"Wonder how many of your buttons are just that easy to push," he read the card and nodded his approval.

She could not suppress her laughter this time, beaming proudly.

'How to get out?' she wrote across the three of spades.

"Now that's more like it," he drawled and took the card from her, writing furiously upon it.

"Do you wile away the hours thinking of ways to tease me, Captain?"

He passed the card across the table to her again.

'At night," it read, 'Less guards. Utility entrance in back. Maintenance uses.'

_Genius!_ she thought, beaming at him again. _My man takes care of everything. How many girls are so lucky?_

He motioned for another card: she rushed to comply.

"What better way to use one's time than by thinking of you, beautiful?"

'Transportation?' he had written across the seven of clubs as he passed it back to her.

Now, that truly was a question. She possessed no car of her own. She couldn't buy one. It wouldn't do to have her name attached something. It would give them a trail to follow. She could… she could steal something if she must. No, they would report it as stolen. That would give them a trail, too. Wouldn't their first step be to check for stolen cars in the area? No, it had to be a vehicle completely unattached, one that would not be missed or reported.

_One of Pamela's trucks!_ But then she would have to let Pam in on the secret. Would Pam even be amenable to the idea? She wouldn't approve of absconding with her patient… perhaps if she explained that they were both in danger as long as they remained at the hospital?

"Now you're just trying to flatter me, Captain."

"Is it working?" he answered and she laughed.

'I have an idea,' she wrote and passed the card.

"You seem to be trying very hard to avoid these tests. Could it be that you're afraid of getting to know yourself better?"

He gave her a dubious look, one that had several reasons, she noted.

"You look as though you doubt me, Captain. Do you not trust my methods?"

"I wouldn't call it a matter of trust, so much as one of disdain. You people, always trying to understand your world, classify things into neat categories, all black and white. Sometimes things just can't be understood, Doctor. The world isn't ordered," he spat, hands gesturing wildly before he stilled, seemingly seizing upon some new tack.

"The world," he breathed, "is simply _chaos_. There are no _reasons_ for anything."

She frowned softly, genuinely disturbed for a moment.

"That is an… interesting world view, Captain."

"It's the _real_ world view, Doctor. Most people aren't strong enough to realize it. Others, like myself, the reality is simply forced upon. Do you think this," his tongue slashed against the corners of his mouth, "had a reason?"

She shifted, mouth opening and closing silently.

"I don't have an answer for that, Captain," she said quietly. "I would like to try and bring our time back to a more constructive line of thought."

"Define constructive. See, me, I've always preferred _de_structive. Rather my… life's ambition, if you will."

Her frown deepened.

"Captain, please don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think that's a very healthy goal for one's life."

"Define healthy. You see, everything's relative, Doc. From one person to the next, the universe shifts just a little, skews, and by the time it gets back to you and me… why… maybe you're the one who's insane, and I'm the only one that really knows what I'm doing."

She stared at him, lost for words again.

"I don't understand."

"You will," he answered simply, eyes trained intently upon her.

She shook her had for a moment.

"Would you submit to the tests, Captain?"

He sat back in his chair, looking suddenly bored with the whole thing, lean strong legs stretched out before him.

"Yes, I suppose I would."

She sighed softly, mind still whirling.

"The first is going to be a Rorschach test, an inkblot test."

"Ah, the old look into the ink and tell me what you see… Haven't your colleagues told you what happened to them when they tried that?"

She froze, looking up at him carefully.

"Are you threatening me, Captain?" she asked slowly.

"Nevermind, doctor," he was straight in his chair now, tongue darting again, "Tell me, what is the purpose of this little time-waster, hmm?"

She straightened the edge of the flashcards on the desk.

"The purpose of the Rorschach test is to hopefully find a pattern in your answers, Captain, certain recurring symbols that might give us further insight into your personality."

"Symbols?"

"Yes… like… Jungian archetypes, for instance. Jung believed that certain truths about the human mind and spirit could be expressed through age-old symbols and figures of ancient mythology. Look at those playing cards of yours. They're rife with such symbols. The Queen of Hearts, the Suicide King, the Knight, even a very important figure, the Trickster."

"The Trickster?" he asked, smiling suddenly.

"Yes. Did you know that in some ancient cultures that jesters were considered paths to the sacred? It was believed that you could not pray until you had laughed. Clowns were said to represent the ever-changing absurdity of the universe and were thus viewed as sacred."

"Chaos," he pointed, grin widening.

"Yes," she said softly, "I suppose so. Throughout history, people have chosen these archetypes and given them personal meaning. The High Priestess, the Hermit. Having found the basic foundations of their personality within the tenets of the figure, they gave the users their identity."

"People have thus chosen their own identities?" he was watching her closely.

"Yes," she nodded.

"Let's choose one for you then. Ah, I know, Ms. Harleen Quinzel. That name is much too boring for you. You're ever so straight-laced, but I can see the truth underneath. Give that name a bit of a-," he rubbed his palms together, "-shine and what do you get?" He circled his hands around his eyes, miming a mask. "The comic servant. The Arlecchino. _Harley… Quinn…_"

She groaned softly, shaking her head.

"You aren't the first to tell me that, you know."

"Oh no?" He frowned.

"No. I heard it all throughout college. You see, my father loved the Commedia dell'Arte. I'm more than half certain that my name is no coincidence. My father had a twisted sense of humor, and my mother was never very good at arguing with him."

The frown deepened. He did not seem happy with this answer. She uncrossed, crossed her legs, squirmed beneath his glare.

"And what would you be, Captain?" she asked quickly. His eyes focused on her again.

"What?" he snapped.

"If you were a symbol? What is your archetype?"

He shook his head dismissively.

"Think of yourself… If you were reduced down to the fundamental, the elemental, what would you be?"

"You still think you can try and understand me! Alright, why not… A knight perhaps, the Jack of Spades, does that give you insight, Doctor? Perhaps I am ever the warrior."

She remained silent for sometime, him staring at her challengingly.

"No," she said finally, "No, that's not what you are."

"Know better than I do?" he asked derisively.

"I must," she said, frowning. "I know exactly what you are, Mr. Irreverent."

She shuffled quickly through the playing cards, found easily the one she had been looking for. She slid it across the surface, watched it take briefly to the air and flutter to the desktop, face down before him.

"What's this?" he asked, simply staring at it.

"That's what you are."

He picked it up slowly, turned it over and laid it flat on his palm. He tilted his head curiously, a lock of hair falling across his left eye. His tongue slipped out, wetting his lips; her eyes followed its course precisely, and she nearly forgot her conclusion.

"The Wild Card. That's your symbol… The Joker." She nodded, proud of her self, and pulled the first of the ink blots from their stack.

She never saw him palm the card.


	30. Chapter 22: Casualties of War

Author's Chapter Notes:

Contains coarse language, violence, and attempted non-con.

OOO

'Burn the cards,' he had written on the seven of Hearts and left the room at 8:55. She mourned the loss of his company for those minutes and gathered the cards dutifully, if reluctantly, into their cardboard pack. To destroy anything he had taken such time and care with smacked of blasphemy to Harley, but if things were to go as she wanted them to, her obedience was absolutely necessary. To disobey could be disastrous. If she did simply as he said, she could trust in the opinion of a man who was much smarter than anyone she had ever met before, she could trust in _him_. And trust in him, Harley did.

She slid the pack into the side of her bra and carefully adjusted her shirt over top. She had to keep it close, keep it hidden until she could do as he had instructed and destroy the cards. She crossed the room and slipped her suit jacket on, opening the door and locking it behind her. It struck her as rather like locking the barn after the cow had escaped, but it was easier to simply follow the reflex. She had a rare empty hour in her schedule and it would be straight to the cafeteria with her. She was rather hungry, and it would afford her a chance to catch another glimpse of the Captain… it was getting so difficult to be without him these days she almost couldn't bear it.

Upon arriving, she was most disappointed to realize that the Captain was not, in fact, at breakfast. Neither was either of his usual partners in crime, she noted suspiciously. Where there was smoke…

She bought two of the breakfast sandwiches. The cooks actually made half-decent biscuits here, which was nothing short of a small miracle, Harley noted. She sat in an empty corner of the cafeteria and unwrapped the first of her sandwiches.

"Mornin'…"

She by now knew the voice.

"Captain Knauer," she smiled, looking up.

He had something to tell her, she need only look at his face to see that.

"What's the news?" she whispered conspiratorially and he grinned at her.

"Who says I got anything useful to say? Maybe I'm just here to pull your strings."

"You shouldn't look so eager, then… I'm a psychiatrist after all. They do teach us to read body language."

"They taught us, too," he replied, with an exasperated shake of his head. He was teasing her. Her heart sank. She had inkling, a thought of this, but she had hoped so fervently that she had not been right.

He was flirting with her.

She schooled her face into a careful mask, an unwavering and perpetual smile. She had long ago learned to hide the exact nature of her thoughts behind such a smile. With her new position beside her Mr. J, a smile was only appropriate, wasn't it?

"What do you have to tell me, Wilhelm? I see there's something on your mind."

"Alright, alright, so I've been caught out. I've just been thinking is all."

"And here I thought they'd burned the biscuits…" she minced.

He gave her an annoyed look, arching an eyebrow. No, no, no, this wasn't safe at all, this wasn't how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to be satisfied with her simple friendship, not yearn for more. But she was his type, wasn't she? Perhaps she had been a little too friendly herself. As far as everyone knew she was single, and she could not let on, should she? He was smart. How long would it take him to put together the pieces if she rejected him? God, what was she going to do?

"I've been thinking," he began again.

"Go on…"

"I've thought of a way you can repay me," he said simply.

"And what would that be, Wilhelm?"

"You can let me take you to dinner." His eyes could not meet hers for a moment, finally gaining the courage to raise them again. He looked so hopeful. "It's been six years since Lorelai died, and in that time I've never met anybody that reminded me so much of her."

Perhaps she had an exit strategy? "Wilhelm…"

"No, let me finish. That's not the reason I'm asking. I've cried my tears. There's a part of me that is always going to love her, but I've made my peace with that part of my life. It's over and done with. What I mean is… you fight for what you believe in. You've got a good heart, Harleen, and a good head on your shoulders and I admire the hell out of you."

Her heart clenched. _If he only knew,_she thought, wincing inwardly.

"You've made your case," she said quietly, her eyes studying the tabletop for a moment. She had no recourse, no retreat. "Yes, Wilhelm, I'll go to dinner with you."

"I don't want this as a favor." There was an edge of harshness in his voice.

She folded her hands reflexively.

"That's not what this is," she shook her head.

He studied her for a moment. After some time, he seemed to draw his desired conclusion, for he smiled softly and nodded.

"How about this Friday?"

It was all she could do to bring herself to smile this time. "That sounds wonderful." Her heart broke to see how happy those words made him.

"Good… I got something to tell you… but we can talk when we're alone."

_Dammit, dammit, dammit_. "Alright then… I'll see you Friday," she gave him a soft smile.

He took several steps backwards, reluctant to leave sight of her, finally whirling on his heel and loping off.

God… why did things like this always happen to her? She picked at her biscuit listlessly.

She had suddenly lost her appetite.

OOO

She made herself eat at least one of the sandwiches, having spent hard earned money on the damned things, and finally left the cafeteria. Upon glancing at her watch the time revealed itself to be shortly after 9:30. She still had time.

She took the stairs (physical activity never failed to clear her head) and made her way to the nurse's station near her office. If she could have avoided these visits, then by all means she would have. The girl had never ceased to be snappish since their initial confrontation, though in the end Harley did not really blame her for it.

"Good morning, Alicia. I need my… schedules." She was interrupted when the woman unceremoniously dumped the usual manila folder upon the counter's edge and promptly spun back to her computer screen, back to Harley.

"Thank you," she said lamely, grabbed the folder and slinked away. She made her way around the corner, retreating to the relative safety of the women's bathroom. She sighed as she listened to the door closing behind her, staring at the mirror for a moment. She laid the folder on the marble countertop. She wet a paper towel and pressed it to her cheeks, closing her eyes and simply breathing for several long moments.

_He's such a nice guy…_It felt terrible to lie to him, but what choice did she have? She certainly couldn't tell him about the Captain. Such a thing would be catastrophic to her plan. She had so little time to get the pieces into place before they had to leave. They had less than two weeks. She was safe for the duration of his treatment. Any longer would give Standen a chance to place Jack into custody, and then she would have no chance of breaking him out. She had no illusions to the contrary. The door opened and closed, a pair of slippers shuffled across the floor. She smoothed her features, lowered her hands from her face, dabbing carefully beneath her eyes.

The deadbolt sliding home caught her attention.

Shit…

She did not need to look, she had a sinking suspicion and her thoughts proved correct as her eyes took in the pale, icy features. The square of his shoulders, the set of his jaw: he was in a white rage, and Harley's heart sank to the depths of her stomach, cold flooding her.

"Colonel," she began carefully.

"It took me… it took me a moment. To really understand. See, at first, I thought… there's no way she can be that stupid. We had an agreement, after all," he advanced, and step by step she matched him, retreating until she ran hard into cold tile. "And then… and then I realized… you were _laughing_at me."

_Shit. He's crazy_.

"What are you talking about?"

"I asked myself, why? Why would someone so smart, so talented, choose the path of her own destruction?"

"I don't under—"

"Don't play with me!" he roared and she flinched, eyes darting. God, she had nothing, no weapons. She was cornered. "I saw it all. There are _cameras_, you stupid cunt. If you had half a brain in your head you would have thought to look. See, him, him I understand, he doesn't care if he loses you, but you? I would have expected more from you… You had such a bright future ahead of you, Doctor… but there's no future where you're going."

He jumped for her, she ducking and darting beneath his grip. Her heels skittered across the tile, feet sliding and ankles dipping inward. His fist contacted with the wall only centimeters from where her head had been a moment before. A scream tore from her throat, she nearly lost her balance, slamming hard into a stall support and he was right behind her, reaching for her. She stumbled, righted herself, narrowly avoided him.

"Help me!" she screamed, screamed as loud as she could. Someone had to hear her, someone had to! His hand snatched at her hair and found purchase. She screamed again and could not escape him this time.

"You can't get away from me," he hissed, "There's nowhere for you to go. You're trapped like the rat you are, you stupid bitch. You have not proved all that competent in following your orders, Lieutenant. You haven't nearly enough respect for authority. And you know what? I'm going to fuck it into you."

She caught him with a hard right cross, fist snapping against flesh, he stumbled but did not lose his grip. Her scalp screamed. She stomped hard upon his instep. He yelped. She stepped into him and shifted, pulling his weight up and over her shoulder just as she had been taught for so many years. He took a handful of hair from her scalp as he crossed her back and he went down hard upon his own shoulder. She scrambled over top of him, feet unable to find purchase upon the tile. His hand found her ankle, lost it again, and she wailed as he scrambled after her. His nails tore into her panty hose, the thin mesh ripping, and she kicked at him blindly, reaching for the door and the safety that lay beyond it. His grip found her again and did not, this time, release her.

"Help me!"

He smacked her hard in the mouth, cutting her cry short, and her head bounced off the tile, the world going hazy for a moment. His knees shoved between hers, forcing her thighs apart and she screamed again, screamed until she thought her throat would tear with the volume of it.

"Shut the fuck up!" His hand tightened in her hair and he belted her hard across the cheek. She struggled against him blindly, the terror overwhelming her as he shoved her skirt higher on her thighs. Oh god, he was really going to do it!

There was noise outside, yelling, scrabbling against the door and she howled as his nails tore red lines down her skin.

The lock finally broke, the door slamming inward. A gleaming dress shoe caught him in the chin, and Harley finally reacted, jamming her knee up and into his groin as hard as she could. The breath flew out of him in a rush of agony and he rolled off of her. She dug her heels into the tile and pressed herself tight to the wall beneath the sink. His fist pounded into his face, did not stop until he was no longer moving, flesh already puffy beneath the blows. There was movement beyond the door, inside now.

"You son of a bitch," her savior panted, and the newcomer pulled at his shoulders. Knauer finally consented, crawling off the Colonel, and the other guard flipped him over onto his stomach, securing his hands quickly behind his back.

"Harleen… Harleen!" It was the second try before Harley finally acknowledged him, looking at him blankly, helplessly.

"He was really gonna do it," she whispered, the tears building in her eyes and he rushed for her, pulling her up off of the ground and into his arms.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, kid, it's okay. We got him, we got him." Knauer whispered and she leaned numbly against him, sniffling weakly as he stroked her hair back from her face. "It's okay… I heard you screaming… I got you… I got you, now."

"Get that bastard out of here," he gestured to the guard, David, she thought, and she watched him and another gather the unconscious Colonel from the room.

"He was… he was… no one's ever…"

"Just shush," he whispered, and soon she felt a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Wilhelm nodded his thanks to the other guard, and led her carefully from the room, holding her close against his chest.

"How did you know?"

He shook his head helplessly. "I just knew, kid…"

Outside, the Colonel was being dragged away, a crowd of patients already forming. They took one look at Harley cradled by Knauer, and began heaping torrents of abuse upon the man, the guards struggling to shove his limp form through the sea of bodies. Harley recognized no one, however. Her eyes found one face alone, one tall, lean form alone in the crowd.

He lounged against the wall, head tilted down, hair falling across his eyes, but Harley could see exactly where his gaze was directed. Jack ignored the Colonel.

He was staring at Wilhelm.


	31. Chapter 23: Persuasion

She sat numbly in the patient's chair in her office and stared across her desk out of the window behind it. The world outside seemed too bright, too clear for a day like this.

Knauer had offered her a ride home.

Harley told him that he would do more good where he could guard the Colonel personally. He admitted that was true, touched her cheek where she had begun to bruise and she thought that he had hands like her father.

"Thank you," she said quietly and he imagined she meant so much more. She was too tired to begin to explain to him otherwise. She felt stretched thin and used up and as though she wanted nothing more than the ending of this day. Sleep, at least, brought the possibility of peace.

One phone call and a blur of afternoon traffic later and the music was something light and frivolous; she heard it only in the background. She stretched as long as she could along the cushions (not very far, she had never been as tall as she would have liked), tried to concentrate on something base and solid, her body, her being, and away from things she did not want to think about. Pam stroked her hair back from her forehead, she felt as a child soothed by her mother. She missed her mother, she thought.

"How you feeling, Harls?"

"Holding on," she said quietly, mouth quirking. She couldn't quite manage the smile.

She missed Jack, she thought.

She sighed and laid her cheek again on Pamela's thigh. Her hands ran absently through her hair as she hummed quietly with the song. Pam had offered her dinner. Harley couldn't muster the stomach to eat it. They'd given her the day off. It was 'understandable'. That was the closest she'd ever gotten to sympathy from the Lieutenant-Colonel. She'd imagined the man incapable of such an emotion. It was just as well… She wanted no such thing from him.

Harley sighed and rubbed her cheek against Pamela's thigh, fingers circled about her ankle.

"Do you really know how much trouble I'm in, Pam?"

Harley felt it as the redhead's body jerked softly with the chuckle, her mouth quirking upward.

"I was just getting ready to ask you if you knew that, blondey…"

Harley closed her eyes for a moment.

"What's going on? This wasn't an isolated incident, was it, Harley? You've dealt with this guy before. Do you really even know if he's under surveillance? What if he gets out? What if someone comes to just get him, what then?"

For the first time since she had met the woman she had no reason to argue against her paranoia.

"I don't know, Pam, I don't know… The right people show up, the right channels are followed, there is absolutely no reason for them to deny the correct request for transfer of custody. I mean, they have their own fucking police," Harley rubbed at her eyes, momentarily overwhelmed and finding the simplicity of darkness behind her lids soothing.

"Who do we have?"

"Wilhelm… while he's at the hospital the only person that ranks higher is Standen himself… but that fact alone makes him useless. If Standen says the Colonel can go, he can go… all they have to do is say that they're taking him to be formally held and charged and off he goes, out the door."

"Any chance of overriding him?"

Harley stared at her. "Are you kidding me?"

She bristled. "I'm not a fucking soldier, I don't know these things."

"He's the hospital director. Common sense says no, Pamela." She relished the rare opportunity to berate her friend. She could concentrate on that, it was distracting, right? No, it wasn't enough. "This isn't over. It's only a temporary reprieve. He could be out right now. He could still be there waiting for me tomorrow, and no one can really stop him…"

"Come on, Harley," Pam joked weakly, "You're starting to sound like me."

"No, it's a legitimate worry. But he doesn't know where I am right now… I'm safe at the moment, and I have to be thankful for small favors, right?" She squeezed her friend's thigh, patting it softly.

"They never gave me any training for this… They never teach you what to do when the enemy is your own people. Friendly fire doesn't even begin to qualify for what they did to him, Pam… They destroyed his whole life, tried to destroy him, and you were right, gloat all you like, but they are back to finish the job and I have to get him out of there."

"Harley!"

"No. Look, if I leave him there, then I am condemning him to death, I am letting them do that, and I will not, Pam, I will not."

"This is crazy, Harley! I mean, where in the hell are you going to go? Where on earth can the Army not find you?"

Harley hesitated. In the end, the question was did she trust Pamela? Harley did, in fact, with her life. She steeled herself.

"Gotham. He knows the city. There are millions of people there. Take new names, just disappear."

Her lips tensed, teeth grinding, jaw chewing at false starts as she sought the words and resisted the urge to simply scream at the blonde.

"Why would you do all of this for him, Harley? You barely know him. I mean, he's just your patient."

"He's more than just a patient—"

She was interrupted by Pamela's agonized groan.

"Oh no, Harley, don't tell me you did exactly what I told you not to do… God, it's such a fucking burden being right all the time. You've fallen in love with him, haven't you? Never mix business and pleasure, Harl, never eat the apples on _your_ apple cart, don't you know that?"

"Yes, I know that," Harley snapped, sitting up, "But there's no controlling how I feel… I can't just walk away and forget him, as though I know nothing about him, and I don't care in the least what happens to him. He's in danger. I can save his life and you're telling me it's wrong to do it?"

"It's breaking the law!"

"And murder isn't? They'll kill him if I just leave him there, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, once they're sure they have no more use of him. He's just information to them. Once he's pumped dry, they'll just throw him away. He has no one, Pammy, no mother or father, no family. I'm the only one that is on his side, I'm all he's got, the only chance he's got to have a semi-normal life, don't you see that? I can't turn my back on him now."

Pamela shook her head, eyes squinted shut.

"Harley…"

"Listen to me. I don't have anyone either. We've both let our lives drift by in a series of orders and commands but we have each other now. And who else could be with him the way that I can? I have the training he needs, I can help him. This is his moment of greatest need and I can be there for him. You have to understand that, Pam. I have to do this. After everything that's been done to him he deserves to have someone that is on his side, unconditionally. I… I would _die_ to keep him safe, he deserves that much from someone. His life has been so hard, Pam, I would give anything to make it better for him."

"Oh god, Harley, you are such a fucking sucker. He's got you completely snowed," Pamela groaned.

"Shut up! I'm serious, Pamela. This means everything to me, and you are the only person I have on my side. I need you to be with me on this."

"You can't ask me to do this, Harley, you're throwing your whole life away for him!"

"I would, Pammy, I would. I love him. I can't help that. I've tried to talk myself out of it, but he has me and I don't want him to let go." Pam groaned louder, clapping her hands over her ears. "I'm not going to change my mind on this!" Harley yelled.

"This is crazy talk, Harley! You can't do this. You know what kind of luck you have. You'll get some prick MP with a mission on his mind and they'll fucking track you down in a few months and then I'm going to be sending your mail to Fort Fucking Leavenworth when they throw your ass in for espionage and obstruction of justice and maybe just plain old treason."

"They don't house females at the Disciplinary Barracks…" Harley mumbled from the side of her mouth, and Pamela growled at her.

She laughed softly despite herself. The redhead's face softened, and her hands found her face as the tears that had long been standing in Harley's eyes finally slid down her cheeks.

"You look so tired, baby doll."

"I am tired." She sniffled, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to gather control over herself.

"You need to just go to bed, honey, just rest. You look like death warmed over."

OOO

The day came bright and shining, but Pam did not take her usual cup of tea. She stayed with Harley for the duration of the morning, and tried without success to convince her to stay home from work today.

"I have to talk to the Captain. Things are falling apart quicker than I thought they would. We're going to have to leave sooner than originally planned. Time is of the essence, Pamela, and I have to do this, with or without you."

"There really is no convincing you otherwise, is there?"

Harley tried to train her expression into one of sternness, found that she still did not have the energy to do so.

Pam snorted in disgust and shook her head.

"I never should have talked to you, life would be so much simpler if I didn't have you around."

"Wouldn't be as fun," Harley said quietly, and they smiled together, Pam bowing her head, shaking it again.

"This is insane, Harley. Don't you realize it?"

"I can't help it. It is what it is."

The redhead sighed.

"What do you need from me?"

"I need transportation. We have to have a way of getting there. I have to find someone who is willing to make us fake identification, and that's not going to be cheap."

"God, I can't believe I'm doing this… But if I leave you to your own devices, you're going to fly off half-cocked and muck it all up…"

OOO

Pamela drove her to work and promised to be near the phone all day should Harley need anything from her. She was still muttering darkly, however, as Harley climbed out of her car again

She waited, but the panic did not begin to well into her throat as she was afraid it might. She would avoid the bathroom on her floor at all costs, even if it meant climbing up a floor to do so. She wished for a sidearm, anything to offer herself protection. She had no idea what was waiting for her beyond the revolving doors. Jack might be dead already. Her steps quickened and she pushed the thought from her mind desperately as she crossed the first floor lobby for the elevator bank. No, that couldn't happen, it just couldn't.

"Lieutenant Harleen Quinzel?"

Oh, she was getting so tired of hearing that name.

She turned slowly eyes immediately falling to his chest. Black band about the arm, MP. Gold oak leaves, Major. Her eyes flashed to his face. He had a solid, strong jaw and somber brown eyes. She did not recognize him. That meant nothing, however.

"Sir?"

"I'd like to speak with you. If you would follow me?"

Her heart continued to flop uselessly somewhere in the vicinity of her lower intestines, it seemed, and her legs felt numb as she walked the length of the hall that led to a block of conference rooms. She'd sat in one her very first day on the job, one of nineteen new interns to the hospital. She might never see this place again, she thought, and looked quickly about the room. No… still nothing to use as a weapon.

"I need to ask you a few questions about yesterday's attack. The records indicate that the Corporal was a patient of yours?"

"Yes." She relaxed slowly. Maybe he wasn't Elite…

"They.." he flipped through a sheaf of papers. "They also indicate that you have only seen him twice since he was admitted to the hospital."

"That's correct," she answered quietly.

"Why only twice?"

"My schedule is very full. Sometimes I have problems fitting all of my patients in. Some of them are seen every other week, instead of every week."

"Do you have any idea why he might have targeted you in particular, having only seen you twice?"

"I don't know," she said after a moment. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Uh-huh," he said quietly, looked to a new piece of paper "And can you explain to me why you did not return home last night?

She stared at him, jaw slack, certain she was hearing him wrong.

"What?"

"We visited your apartment this morning. You weren't there. Now, you either left very early in the morning, or you never went home at all."

Her brow creased. "I spent the night with a friend."

"And they'll confirm this?"

"I don't understand.."

"Just answer the question, Lieutenant."

"Yes, she will, but I don't understand. Why am I being interrogated? The man tried to rape me. I have bruises all over my body. Why aren't you trying to make sure he can't hurt anyone else?"

The Major snorted softly, leaning back in his chair.

"I don't think he's going to be bothering anybody, Lieutenant. The Corporal is dead."


	32. Chapter 24: Questions

"I don't understand," she said dumbly.

His eyebrows raised, a nasty half-smile lingering on his thin lips. "How else can I explain this to you?"

She shook her head. "No, I mean… I understand but… how? What happened? When?"

He leaned forward suddenly. "You didn't ask who."

It was all she could do to keep her face passive and still. "Well if you're talking to me you obviously don't know who did it."

"Uh-huh," he said again. "Now, I have a question for you. You say you have a very full schedule, you have difficulty seeing all of your patients. But according to your schedule here I see that you take particular care to see one of your patients very frequently, almost every day in fact. Why is it that you have so much time for this patient in particular?"

For a moment she could not breathe.

"The Captain," she managed. "That is no choice of mine. His course of therapy has been set by the Lieutenant-Colonel himself."

"Why would he require so much more attention than the other patients?"

She swallowed slowly, chose her words carefully.

"He is in a fragile mental state. He requires more frequent monitoring than the other men."

"Why?"

"I would be violating patient/doctor confidentiality by sharing that information with you, Major."

"How convenient."

She frowned softly.

"It's not convenient at all. I would like to do everything I can to help you solve this case, sir. But the Captain's treatment and the reasons for it… that is privileged information and irrelevant to our current topic of conversation."

"When I want to talk to someone about feeling a little weepy, Doctor, I'll know where to come… but I'll thank you to let me decide what is and is not relevant in this case."

She struggled to smile, managed it stiffly, slowly inclining her head.

"Of course. My apologies, Major."

The papers shuffled again.

"Now listen, Lieutenant, what the Corporal did to you—"

Her teeth gritted at the sudden change in tack. "What he _attempted_ to do to me."

"I'm sorry," he said, the lack of sincerity in his voice like a slap in the face, "What he _attempted_ to do was an unspeakable act, and no one is condoning it. But you must admit that there is no one in the hospital with a greater reason to want him dead than you yourself…"

"I didn't kill him. I wasn't in the hospital at all last night. After what he did to me, what makes you think I'd even be able to kill him? It's already been established I can't fight him off."

He was watching her closely. "No, maybe you couldn't. But there are still quite a few people who _are_ here at the hospital at night, who _could_. Now, a pretty girl like yourself, I'm sure you've got quite a few friends among the men. I mean, really, some of these boys haven't seen a real American woman in years, I'd understand it if a few of them grew quite fond of you after seeing you enough. Maybe fond enough for you to ask favors of them?"

She stared at him. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You think I set someone on him."

"Did you? "

"No!" she snapped. "I don't know anything about this. The men have no reason to dislike me. I do my job, I ask for no quarter. I'm a good doctor and a good soldier. The men _respect_ me."

His head tilted. "And you think none of them want anything more?"

She was silent for some time. "I have no control over what they may or may not want."

"But you admit to the possibility."

Her head jerked. "I can't deny it. But that doesn't mean I've encouraged it."

"They're lonely, attention-starved. No more than a lingering glance is necessary for such a man in love, Dr. Quinzel, surely you are aware of that."

She remained silent.

"Now there is a certain romanticism to the occurrence. A sense of… divine retribution, of punishment for crimes committed."

"We cannot take the law into our own hands," she said quietly.

"I am the law, Lieutenant, and I do not appreciate in the least my job being taken away from me."

"I have neither condoned nor encouraged such an activity, sir. If you think I am the mastermind of some elaborate plot, you are mistaken. I am a professional, Major. I have no special _friends_ among the men."

He folded his hands on the table top. "Loyalty is prized among soldiers."

She swallowed. "I'm not protecting anyone."

"But not loyalty to the wrong _thing_. Perhaps you had nothing to do with the killing, you were not the one who ordered it. Perhaps this person came to the conclusion that murder was the only option left entirely to his own devices, perhaps. But if I discover otherwise... well, let's just say you would make things much easier on yourself if you would simply tell the truth."

How much did he know? God help her, let the mask not falter now.

"I have nothing to tell you, Major."

He nodded, smiling at her coldly.

"I didn't think you would. Can't say I'm pleased to be correct, however. Your _further_ cooperation with this investigation will be expected. I trust you won't be taking any extended leaves in the next few weeks, Dr. Quinzel. I'll be in touch."

He gathered his papers, straightening them with a single tap against the tabletop and stood smoothly. He had the unthinking grace of a man completely assured with his place in life.

"Of course, Major." She stood and saluted as he left the room, found it was several minutes before she could convince her feet to move.

"God dammit," she muttered, peeling, it seemed, the soles of her shoes from the floor, taking several faltering steps toward the door. What else could go wrong? She would never be able to leave now, they would be watching her movements. Her absence from the hospital would be judged as irrefutable evidence of her guilt. What in the hell was she going to do? "That bastard… he's holding me back even after he's dead."

And who _had_ killed the Colonel? She looked to her watch. It was 7:20. Forty minutes until the Captain's appointment. She had a lot of leg work to do in a very short amount of time.

She did not bother to search for Wilhelm, instead paging him to the third floor nurse's station. He had been close, he arrived in barely five minutes, looking somewhere between harried and exhausted, uniform uncharacteristically wrinkled. He smiled when saw her, however, she did not fail to notice that. She did not let him stop, instead grabbing onto his arm and leading him down the hallway, away from the largest concentration of people.

"What the hell happened?" she whispered.

"Where have you been? He's had everybody here since 3:30 this morning, that's about the time they found him. Real fucking dick, too. I hate MPs, and I used to _be_ a cop. He's got no leads, which means everybody's a damned suspect. I've been home for a grand total of an hour in the last eighteen… Wouldn't even let me take a shower."

Harley winced. "He must have been just thrilled when he didn't get an answer at my apartment… No wonder he was such an asshole."

"No, that's just his natural _charm_ shining through," Wilhelm muttered, and she couldn't help but smile softly.

"What do we know?"

"Well, from what Margit tells me they found him around the time we changed shifts last night. He'd been making a fuss pretty much since we locked him in there. I was tempted to call the nurse for a sedative, bastard wouldn't shut up. Finally we just left him there, decided we'd come back in hour intervals to check up on him. When he comes through around 2:30 he says it's unusually quiet, so he pops open the door and pokes his head in to get a look. Said he looked like he was sleeping, but five minutes later he still had a funny feeling so he walked by again and decided to wake him up this time, didn't exactly care about his beauty sleep, right? He yells, but he gets no answer. He thinks it might be a trick so he keeps his pistol in hand and goes to shove him awake, and that's about the time he realizes the guy is stone-cold dead, just laying there, so he calls the base, the MP, Harrison, calls us, and the rest is miserable history."

"What's happened to the body?"

"They've taken it down to the morgue. They've already had a CSI team through the room, but nobody looked particularly happy when they left. My guess is they didn't find anything."

Harley shook her head. "That's impossible. How can they just… not find anything?"

"They were probably asking themselves the same question. Harrison was livid. He's been interviewing anyone who's so much as walked by the guy since he's been here, but it doesn't look like anyone's talking. There's been no arrests."

"I need to see the body, Wilhelm."

He weighed more than her. He dug his heels into the tile and she was spun around to face him.

"Are you crazy? You can't do that! That's interfering with an investigation. You're gonna end up in the brig."

"He already thinks I did it, Wilhelm," she hissed. "It is in my best interest to find out what happened. If I figure out who did it then I have all the evidence I need to exonerate myself."

He shook his head. "This is crazy," he said again.

Undeterred, her expression did not change. "Who is on duty in the morgue this morning?"

"Everybody! I told you, the whole hospital has been on call!"

"But who do I need to talk to?" she persisted.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, finally opening them and looking at her.

"Dr. Browning," he said simply, before he took a light grip on her upper arm and led her away.

OOO

Like most hospitals, Hines found it best to keep their 'medical waste' as far from the living patients as possible. The morgue was in the second level of the basement, a series of cold and open rooms. The walls, ceiling and floor were all of plain concrete block. Along the west wall was a bank of metal doors, small refrigerated compartments which served as a temporary hold for the unfortunates who found themselves wheeled through the steel double doors, a way station on the road to their final resting place. She had no idea how many soldiers had been brought through here in the history of the hospital, and did not particularly want to dwell upon it.

To the right was a small lab area, enclosed, sealed off from the rest of the morgue with walls of glass and steel. The majority of the room, however, was dominated by the examination area, three steel slabs, the tops grooved with a series of channels to guide away water and other bodily fluids. The tables were thankfully empty. However, so was the rest of the lab.

"There's no one here," she looked to Wilhelm helplessly.

He shook his head. "Hold on a second."

He led himself down a small hallway, past a line of empty gurneys. She heard a knock.

"Come in," came a muffled voice. Harley followed quickly behind him, found him at the end of the hallway. The opened door revealed a tiny office, not an inch of wall visible behind three large bookcases. A monstrous gray desk took up most of the floor space, the rest of it filled with milk-crates, stacks of paper and manila folders. There was a path about a foot wide leading from the desk to the door, just enough space behind it to house a chair and the small brunette within it.

"Who is it?" she asked around a mouthful of a particularly soggy looking tuna salad sandwich. A moment later her expression said that she recognized Wilhelm. She took a quick swallow, chasing it down with a gulp of coffee that looked as though it had long since ceased steaming.

"What can I do for you?"

He threw a hand out in a flourish, raising his eyebrows to Harley.

"It's all yours."

She sighed softly, edged carefully around Wilhelm, peering into the tiny room.

"Dr Browning?" she guessed.

The woman nodded, hurriedly pulled the impromptu paper bib from the collar of her shirt, tripped over a plastic crate, and nearly toppled out of the door. Wilhelm caught her inches from the ground. She squeaked, hurriedly dragged her feet under her, sniffling and straightening her clothes hurriedly as she stepped away from him.

"Oh… uh… thank you…Yes… yes, that would be me. What can I do for you?" she asked again.

Harley watched her closely. "I need to know about the Corporal…"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Who?"

She frowned softly. "The… the Corporal… he was murdered last night."

"Oh," she said after a moment, recognition finally showing on her face.

"Oh, the blonde, why didn't you say so? Everybody's been asking about him." She spun on her heel, looking back to Harley quickly. "I really shouldn't say anything to you. I'm not supposed to reveal anything until the official autopsy report is filed… but… just between you and me? He wouldn't accept my initial report, so technically, I'm not sharing any real information with you. Said he was sure I made a mistake. I wanted to eat something before I looked him over again."

"Harrison, the MP?" Harley asked, and the brunette hummed, considering.

"Could be. Never really asked his name. Didn't ask for mine. Not very bright though. There was nothing wrong with my autopsy, just the body."

"What was wrong with the body?"

"Ah," she pointed, grinning. "That's just the thing. There _is_ nothing wrong with the body. Here…" She disappeared briefly. Harley heard a lock turning, and Browning reappeared, heading for the refrigerated cells. "We haven't got much time. Help me get him out."

She opened a door in the second row, third from the end. She grabbed the edge of the slab and slid it out. There was a closed body bag on the steel. Inside was the Colonel. Harley swallowed, grabbed for Wilhelm reflexively. He gave her a look of concern, touching her forearm briefly before he stepped away, grabbing a corner of the bag and helping to heft it onto the gurney the woman had wheeled over.

"This is completely unprofessional, but this is isn't exactly a routine case. I mean, normally I don't get bodies that are in such good condition, you know. They're usually ripped up, and I've got five pounds of shrapnel to pick out of their bodies… or at least have more holes in them and a gallon of blood to wash off before I turn them over to the funeral home, but him… well, he's just perfect."

She zipped the bag down quickly, spreading the panels open. Harley jumped at the sound, screamed when his hand suddenly reached for her, wrist flexing upward.

"Little jumpy," Browning said, the blue eyes regarding her curiously. "It's just the nerves dying. Perfectly natural."

She circled the end of the gurney, grabbing his arm and lifting it back onto the mattress. Wilhelm set a hand on her shoulder, and she glanced back at him briefly.

"Now see, I'm glad I hadn't stapled him shut yet... I'd hate to have to take them all back out… I did a complete exam of all his organs, weighed and catalogued them all. Heart, lungs, liver, brain, kidneys, everything's completely normal. I don't even usually get to _see_ organs in such pristine condition. He's a model body, he should have outlived God, yet here he is... Kind of a shame. He was a looker, wasn't he?" she asked with a crooked grin.

Harley smiled weakly. Wilhelm, wisely, kept his mouth shut. After a moment , the woman coughed and went on.

"Anyway… it obviously rules out a natural cause of death. So I went back to the external exam. Hadn't bothered with one initially because the first look over said there was nothing wrong with him. Now the cyanosis in his lips and eyelids is indicative of—"

"Asphyxiation." Harley finished.

"Yeah. But the quickest way to create a lack of oxygen is strangulation. Now, you think, you've got a trained soldier. He's not just going to lay there and let himself die is he? No, he's going to fight. Strangling a person really isn't all that hard, it takes about thirty-three pounds of sustained pressure for about four or five minutes and brain death occurs. It takes three to six pounds to pull a trigger, twenty pounds to open a can of pop.

"But how do you keep a man immobilized for five minutes while he's fighting for his life with absolutely no signs of a struggle? Capillary rupture in the sclera of his eyes, here," she cracked his eye open with thumb and forefinger, growing more animated with each passing minute. "would indicate a vigorous struggle, but they're white as snow. I've got no petechial hemorrhaging around the eyes or the hairline, no manual bruising or ligature marks around the neck, absolutely no tracheal edema. There's nothing wrong with him other than the fact that he's completely _dead_. So how does a perfectly healthy twenty-nine year old die in his sleep?"

Harley did not bother to open her mouth, only shook her head dumbly.

"Hey, don't feel bad. I don't have an explanation for it either. I did a swab of the body, but I didn't find anything. Everybody leaves _something_ behind. The body is constantly expelling hairs and skin cells spontaneously, we have no control over it, so unless he was killed by someone wearing a clean suit, how is it that I located not a single stray hair or thread of fabric? There's no bruising on his hands, no flesh under his fingernails. That says to me that he never saw it coming. He never had a _chance_ to fight. But no one's that good. Everyone makes a mistake somehow… So where's his?"


	33. Chapter 25: Answers

Author's Chapter Notes:

Unbeta'd as usual. The real note is at the bottom, because it contains spoilers.

OOO

It was in the moment that she saw Nunez planted at the end of the corridor that she knew things were not quite right. While, given the day's events thus far, this was not very surprising, Harley was less than pleased upon making this registering the look on his face, her heart sank somewhere lower than her shoes (though at this point she didn't think it could make it much farther down).

He did not give her a chance to speak, words instead escaping in a torrent.

"They've got him, they've got him."

"What!?" she nearly screamed. It was luck there was no one around to hear.

"The MP's, they came and got him almost an hour ago. They've got him in some room down on the first floor. There was nothing I could do about it," he said quickly.

"What were you going to do? What could you really have done?" she asked quietly, managing to sound much calmer than she felt. "What do they know?"

"How in the hell am I supposed to know?" he snapped. "I'm not even sure what _I_ know. I don't know what's going on. He got to Nubby before they got to him. He's in your office. You better hurry and go talk to him. You never know where those bastards are."

She nodded quickly, gripped his shoulder firmly as she passed. He squeezed her hand tightly in his desperation, knuckles grinding together for a moment, then let her go, tossing his hand quickly over his shoulder.

"Go on, hurry up. They come this way, I'll hold them up. They come that way, you're just fucked."

OOO

It was with a suspiciously large crash that she found and opened the door to her office, shutting it quickly behind her. The rays of sunlight through the bay window caught on a thousand tiny motes of dust in the air. Her computer monitor had been shoved aside on the desktop, papers scattered across the floor beneath two discarded ceiling tiles. Directly ahead of her she saw a gangly pair of legs wrapped thinly in hospital pajamas. His single arm pulled in vain upon a long wire that disappeared somewhere into the ceiling.

Stepping closer, her gaze fell upon a shattered processor on the floor, eyes widening.

"Is that—"

"It's not yours," he said, before she could finish, glancing down at her briefly.

"It came from up there?"

He nodded, resuming his struggle.

"Well, why would you just let it break like tha—"

"He said it wasn't important. Only needs one" he pointed to a small black box lying on a couch cushion, "There was three of them up there. S'just the wire and camera he really wants. Said he'll need them when he gets through with the police."

_It's true then,_ she thought, heart clenching, _he did know the camera was there… It was a trap all along. He laid me out like a pawn, like bait, and he attacked… but how? How did he kill him? I have to find out._

He stopped, arm lowering beside him, sighing deeply as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Are you really going to make me ask for it? Or you just gonna stand there and watch me struggle?"

She sighed herself, kicking off her high heels and stepping around the desk, using the chair as a step-up. She grumbled aloud as she made her way onto the desktop.

"Confident, isn't he, that he's just going to be able to brush them off so easily? I think he might have finally put himself into a corner this time…"

"I don't know what he's gonna do," Nubby said, reaching back up and wrapping the wire first around his forearm, then his hand, gripping it tightly and passing the end back to her. "But I do know that nothing he does surprises me anymore."

"Do you really think we should just be jerking it out of the ceiling like this? What if it damages something?"

He shook his head. "S'just another processor, bunch of staples holding it up there. I checked. One good tug'll get it down."

Harley grunted skeptically, looping the wire around her arm in much the same fashion. She stopped suddenly.

_Cameras… Wait, cameras… the security cameras! Whatever happened to the Colonel, it'll show on the security tapes! If I check the footage, I'll have my answer!_

"One, two, three," Nubby counted, and Harley pulled. "Alright, so maybe two tugs…"

It took three, and a final backward press of Harley's weight to dislodge the wire from its moorings. The processor clipped his shoulder on the way past, and would have landed squarely in Harley's face had she not already been in the midst of tumbling from the desk. Crashing past the desk chair, her elbow met with a crack against the wall, though her head sounded a little more like a thud against the carpet and its meager padding.

"Doc?"

She blinked blearily, groaning as she struggled to bring her eyes to focus.

"God, my head hurts," she mumbled, squeezing her eyes shut. The fluorescent lamps were much too bright.

"I don't have time for this," he said, an edge of panic in his voice.

"Go on," she slitted an eye open, peering at him carefully, groaning again as she sat up. "Do what you have to do. I still have work… Things to find out… The security feed… I'll be fine."

Christopher, not privy to her personal thoughts, looked as though he regarded this as largely nonsense, and as if he thought she might have bumped her head a bit harder than she was admitting. He clenched his jaw shut, though, and nodded stiffly, bowing to begin stuffing the wires, camera, and processor into a small knapsack that Harley now saw by the door.

"Good luck," he said absently, tossing it over his shoulder and slipping out the door, shutting it again quickly behind him. She stood weakly, weaving drunkenly on her bare feet as she made her way to the door, stopping to slip on her shoes. She pressed the heel of her hand into her temple as she grabbed her keys and left the room, locking the door behind her. From there, she made her way to the nurse's station. It was to her great relief that she found that Alicia was not behind the desk, instead a tall blonde who Harley knew to be a floater, working in any department in the hospital in which she was required.

"Emma," Harley read from her name tag. "I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I'm afraid I have an emergency. I will have to cancel all of my appointments for today. Would you please make sure that my patients are informed?" The nurse nodded, already turning to the computer to bring up the schedule. Harley felt thankful for small favors. At least one part of her plan would go off easily today. "Thank you," she said quietly, turning away and taking great care to walk a straight line as she made her exit.

She needed to find Wilhelm again. She was certain that he would help her, but without his presence the other guards might not be so willing to assist her in looking into things she rightly had no business seeing. No doubt Harrison and the other MP's in his command had already thought of checking the security tapes themselves. If they had not already, they would soon, which meant that time was of the essence. They could come for that footage at any time.

It wouldn't do to call him over the intercom again, but neither could she wander from one end of the hospital to the other looking for him. There were too many floors, too many wings to cover.

"Walkie-talkie," she murmured. Yes, all the guards had radios. It was how they relayed information, asked for assistance from one to another. If she could find one guard, she could ask him to call Captain Knauer over the radio. The security room was on the top floor, in the center wing. Surely she would run into a guard somewhere between here and there.

She did not see anyone on the first floor she crossed, nor the second, it was not until her third pass through the fifth floor that she was finally able to catch a quick glimpse of the familiar khaki uniform. He strode with purpose; she had to pick her speed up to a jog to catch up with him. As she drew closer, she realized she knew the guard. David, was his name, the one who had been with Captain Knauer the day that… she didn't want to think about that.

"David…. David!" He turned the second time she said his name, confused at first, perhaps a bit irritated. He had been headed somewhere particular, and was not pleased to be interrupted. She noticed his expression soften the moment he recognized her, however.

"Dr. Quinzel. You need somethin'?"

She did not try to steady her voice, nor straighten her shoulders, nor bring herself to her full height. It would be in her best interest to appear vulnerable at this moment. "Yes… actually… If you might do me a favor… I… I need to speak with Captain Knauer. Could you please ask him to meet me by the stairwell here?"

"Yeah, sure… I ran into him about two minutes ago. He shouldn't be far. Go sit down, Doctor, I'll call him."

She gave him a smile of thanks, rounding the corner and taking a seat upon the memorial bench just on the other side. She was three-quarters of the way through the gold dedication placard (Gunnery Sergeant Milton P. Turrell) when she heard the quiet tap of dress shoes approaching.

His eyes had already found her. His expression was tense: it seemed he did not know exactly what was waiting for him. Finding her alone, he relaxed a little. She drew herself up to her feet as he finally stopped before her.

"They have my patient in custody."

"What?"

She did not answer him.

"Can you get me into the security center?"

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

"You're still trying to figure this out… You want to check the hallway camera outside the Colonel's room, don't you?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I have to know what happened. If he's innocent, their attention toward him might have a negative effect. His paranoia and his hostility will increase again, all of my hard work will be wasted. If he's innocent, then I have to make them stop the questioning as soon as possible. If he's guilty… if he's guilty, then it's my fault… and he's going to need a lawyer."

He frowned deeply. "How is this your fault?"

"If he did it, then he did it for me… it was an act of retribution… He saw me. He knows what happened. He was only trying to protect me."

He pressed a hand over his eyes, finally removing it and looking to her resignedly.

"Yeah… well… I can't really fault him for that…" He shook his head. "God… I can't believe… You're the most stubborn, hard-headed…" He trailed off in a mutter. "Come on. Matheson's on the TVs today. He's not gonna spread the word about what we're doing. Never says boo to anybody anyway."

"Thank you." He did not fully return her smile as he spun around, took a single step around the corner, and plowed headlong into the obstacle on the other side.

The obstacle in question, one that was beginning to look very familiar to Harley, let out a squeak and tumbled backwards with such force she looked as though she had walked into a wall. For the second time that day, Harley watched Knauer dart forward, scooping her up just before she hit the tile. He was proving to be quite agile, she thought, but the good coroner certainly was not.

Her eyes were very wide, Harley realized with a soundless gasp, and not all from surprise. It was a moment before either of them moved. Dr. Browning finally coughed softly, glancing at a curiously diagonal angle in order to look at the floor.

"We really should stop meeting like this. People are going to talk." She slurred the words together quickly, too embarrassed to even open her jaw fully to speak.

_She_ likes _him!_ Harley realized with a rising elation. _Oh god. If I can just direct his attention to her I'll be saved! This is my chance!_

Wilhelm seemed to finally realize their position, setting her back onto her feet and stepping back, clearing his throat rather uncomfortably.

"_Funny_ meeting you two here," she regarded them rather suspiciously, but Harley had already turned just such an eye upon her colleague.

"You're being nosy, aren't you? You came to look at the security cameras."

The look of outrage was such that Harley knew immediately that she was in fact correct in her assumption.

"So were we. Come with us."

For a moment it seemed that she might try again to cry foul at Harley's accusation, but she finally gritted her teeth together and nodded curtly. Wilhelm gave her a strange look, but Harley stared resolutely back. Finally, even he was forced to back down.

They were some ten doors down the hallway from it, a plain metal door with the word 'SECURITY' painted in wide block letters. He did not bother with the ring of keys on his belt, instead raising his hand and delivering three sharp knocks.

"Matty! Open it up!"

It took a moment, she heard the skid of wheels along the floor and then the sound of someone crossing a short distance. It was not a very big room then. The door swung wide revealing a tall redhead with a nervous, pinched expression. She'd noticed him around once or twice, as much as she had ever noticed the security guards (she considered them more or less as decoration, rather like tall potted plants placed periodically through the building). Wilhelm, truly, had been the first guard she'd ever known by name.

"Go take a break, kid." His tone brooked no questions, though it did not look as though Matheson's personality was all that suited to arguing in the first place. He nodded, saying nothing, only a murmur of assent before he grabbed his radio from a tabletop and left the room.

Knauer folded his arms over his chest, sweeping one out in an encouraging gesture. Harley looked to the bank of monitors along the right wall of the small, rectangular room.

"Every floor has ten cameras placed from one end of the building to the other. There's a camera at every level of the stairwell, too."

"So how do I know which is the right camera?"

He pointed to a large map on the opposite wall. It was a security schematic of the building, showing the placement of each camera, listing every numbered room, department, and storage space. There was the Morgue, the Boiler Room, the Cafeteria, the ICU, Physical Therapy, the Burn Unit, Psychiatry, the OR's, Recovery, Orthopedics. There was the maintenance room they would be leaving the building from, very soon, Harley realized. The map laid out every door and window; it even showed the coordinated bunches of wires and pipes that ran throughout the walls, connecting one level to the next.

"Dammit," Harley muttered. "I can't think of his room number."

"654," Dr Browning said quietly, after a long moment of silence. Harley looked back to her with a curious expression. "Perhaps I was a bit better prepared to snoop than you were."

Harley made the concession with a nod, laughing softly. Looking to the map, she quickly found the sixth floor. Room 54 would place him somewhere in the center of the building. She ran her finger along the paper until she found the number she was looking for, glancing out around it until she found the circular symbol they used to represent the cameras.

"It's camera D15…" She looked back to Wilhelm quickly, her excitement building. "The camera's not five feet from his door… Whoever did it, whatever they did… We'll see it… It will be right in the security footage."

Wilhelm crossed the distance in a single long-legged stride, bowing briefly over the keyboard. He typed in some sort of code, Harley had not been studying his fingers, which brought up a little input prompt. He typed in the number of the camera, D15, and the screen changed, revealing a smaller screen at the center, and beneath it a control panel.

"Problem is, we've got at least a two hour window to look at…" he said, another prompt appearing. "From about 1 till 3:00 or 3:30…"

"It would probably be safer to set a four-hour window. TOD predictions are not always one hundred percent correct…" Dr. Browning put in again, finally stepping forward, peering over Wilhelm's other shoulder.

"Alright, from 12 to 4 then." He entered the numbers into the box, pressing enter. The black screen jumped, a still of the hallway appearing within the smaller screen. "We don't have the time to sit here and watch it, not even fast-tracking. I can copy it onto a DVD, and you can go through it on your own time." He pulled a blank disc from a drawer beside him, inserting it into the hard drive, pushing it shut.

"I've got a TV in my office. We can watch it there," Dr. Browning supplied.

"Sounds like a plan." Harley said quietly.

Dr. Browning nodded silently, finally leaving the room with a last lingering glance toward Wilhelm. It was not a full two minutes later, just as the newly burnt DVD slid out of the hard drive, that she appeared again, out of breath.

"Christ, they're coming, they're coming right now!"

"What?" Harley shrieked.

"They're right behind me. I saw them down the hall."

"They're coming to check the footage," Harley realized, "Wilhelm, can you delete it?"

"What!?" It was his turn to question, whirling on her.

"Can you delete it?" She spoke each word slowly and succinctly. "I have to know what's on this tape, _before_ they see it. If the Captain is on the tape, I have to have time to think this through. If he's not, then I can find a way to get the footage back to them anonymously. They need never know any of us was ever involved."

He hesitated, shaking his head briefly, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Harley imagined her nerves stretched to shaking, imagined she could hear their footsteps just outside the door.

"Please, Wilhelm, please!" she whispered desperately.

He seemed almost in pain as he turned back quickly, his fingers flying across the keyboard, drawing up another prompt, and then a box which read 'Reboot System?' He clicked yes. Harley watched the screen flicker again, several windows shutting down, and then a single one reappearing. The number in the right hand corner read 'A1', the screen showing a view of the front door of the hospital, the clock reading 8:58 AM.

Wilhelm stood just as she heard the key enter the lock, sliding the DVD into his back pocket as he did, turning to face the two women and the door to the room.

Harrison was at the front, two new officers flanking him. His eyes found Wilhelm first, then Harley, then Dr. Browning. She kept her face passive and still, though she could scarcely hear past her heart pounding in her ears.

"Now what do we have here?"

Wilhelm grunted softly, leaning back against the table, folding his arms across his chest, one ankle across the other.

"Alright… so you caught us fucking off on the clock… That a crime, all of a sudden?" He raised his eyebrows. The dislike, it seemed, was palpable between the two men. Harley looked uneasily between them.

Harrison did not seem inclined to honor him with a response. He threw a thumb over his shoulder.

"We've got work to do. Get out of here."

"Sure thing, boss." Wilhelm shrugged, gathering himself up easily to his full height. It was obvious he had several inches on the Major. Harrison didn't look as though he particularly enjoyed that fact.

"Wait a second… I can't access the memory. It's not letting me go through." One of the cops, the one bent in front of the computer screen, spoke up, glancing nervously back over his shoulder at Harrison.

"What do you mean you can't access it?"

"Well, you know," Wilhelm glanced at his watch. "It is 9:02… We don't have a whole lot of memory… System erases itself at 9 every morning, to make space for the next day."

A muscle in his jaw pulsed like a metronome, a thin sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead. _Oh Jesus… He's going to lose it…_ Harley thought.

"I am… aware of the system's parameters… But… I thought… that I told you… _this_ morning… to hold the files until I could review them…"

Wilhelm feigned a bewildered expression, finally gasping quietly. "Oh… you know… come to think of it… You did, didn't you? About 5 o'clock this morning, right? I thought you would have already checked it by now… God, I'm so sorry…. It totally… slipped my mind. These things happen… I'm kind of flighty… on account of not having slept in the last thirty hours and all."

It was all Harley could do not to gasp herself. Harrison had told him? Then… Wilhelm had disobeyed a direct order… simply because she had asked. Her heart clenched, stomach tying itself in knots.

"Get out… GET OUT!" Her prediction had been correct. His thin veneer of control shattered nearly audibly. Harley did not try to register his expression, however, instead darting immediately for the door. Her two companions were not far behind, each falling into step beside her as they heard the door slamming shut.

No one looked back.

OOO

In the dank and cool of the morgue's main room, Harley found that her ears were still ringing from the volume of the Major's voice. Wilhelm had not spoken since they had left the Security Center behind, though Harley had tried several times to draw some sort of response from him.

"I'll lock the door…" Browning said quietly, walking from sight.

Harley glanced at an exam table, traced her finger along the lip of the cold, clean steel.

"Thank you, Wilhelm… I know… I understand what you did."

"I could end up in jail for this… For longer than I've probably got years left," he said quietly, crossing his arms over his chest again, looking away from her. "But I didn't do it for him. I want you to know that. I did this for _you_. If it was my way, I'd see him and everyone like him tied in a cage… somewhere far from the sun, and so much as a molecule of fresh air. I know his type. They're monsters. Not the kind you see in movies, but the real ones. The ones that walk around in broad daylight, _every_day. Now you seem to think that there's some piece of human left somewhere in him, enough to warrant helping him out of this situation, something that makes him worth saving. My only hope is that your faith in him is not misplaced."

_It isn't,_ Harley thought frantically to herself, _It can't be._

Browning returned, gesturing with her hand that they should follow. Harley glanced back to Wilhelm, who motioned her forward, falling into step behind her, pulling the DVD from his back pocket again. He handed it to Browning as they entered her cramped office. Harley heard the hum of electricity before the screen came to life, first blue, then black and white as the security footage started, grainy, the pixels stretched on the larger screen, a portion of the hallway visible and the doors to five patient rooms.

"Alright… Here we are at 12 AM." She pressed fast-forward, lines jumping across the screen though the image did not change. Suddenly a dark figure darted past the camera.

"Hold it," Harley spoke up. "Go back to that."

Browning pressed pause and then rewound the footage more slowly. Step by step backwards the figure appeared.

"Go on," Wilhelm said. "That's Margit. He's making the rounds. Keep going."

Margit made two more passes between 12:30 and 1:15. Browning pressed the button again, the speed increasing.

"Don't go so fast… we might miss something." Harley admonished, leaning closer to the screen.

"Don't think you're going to miss that."

She looked back to Wilhelm. "What?"

"That," he pointed to the TV screen. Browning had paused and rewound it again, finally pressing play. At first there was nothing that Harley could see, only the same empty hallway. Finally there was movement to the left of the screen, a shape coming slowly into view.

He strode slowly down the hallway, looking for all the world as though he was taking a stroll in the park, hands folded casually behind him. He came to a stop finally, glancing (slyly, Harley thought) up at the camera before leaning back against door 654, sliding slowly down to the floor, elbows balanced on his knees, fingertips dangling between them.

"He's talking," Browning pointed to the screen, pressing the volume button up on the remote in her hand.

Wilhelm shook his head. "Camera's aren't equipped for sound."

"There's no way to figure out what he's saying?" Harley asked quietly.

"Not unless you know how to read lips."

"Dammit," Browning muttered. They watched several minutes more of the same thing, the Captain did not move, only continued to speak, remaining in the same position.

"Fast-forward it." Wilhelm said, and she did so, slowly. Harley watched the footage roll past. "Stop."

He had risen from the floor, standing and stretching, and after a moment just as casually wandering off again. Harley frowned.

"That's it? He's there from 1:30 till 2:10… 40 minutes… What the hell was he doing, stopping by to have a midnight chat?" Knauer grumbled

"I don't get it," Harley whispered.

Browning looked just as dissatisfied with their discovery, pressing the rewind button with much more force than was necessary, heading back to 1:30.

"Alright…We don't have much… so we've got to look closer at what we've got. So… he walks up, looks at us, sits down, starts talking… What's he saying?"

Wilhelm looked very perturbed, Harley noticed, but he waved off her concern when Browning spoke up again.

"Wait a second… Watch…" She tapped the screen rhythmically for a long moment, rewinding it back to 1:30 again, doing it again. "It is… I'm right… Watch his lips move. He's talking in a rhythm…. 72 words a minute."

"Does that mean something?" Harley looked to her, supremely confused.

"The average resting heart rate of a human is 72 beats a minute. It's a common hypnosis technique… Speaking in rhythm with the heart, to soothe, draw them in…" She bit her lip, shaking her head, eyes wide.

"What? What is it?" Harley spat, impatiently. "What does this have to do with the Colonel's murder?"

"Don't you see?" Browning spun in her chair, looking back to Harley quickly. "It's got everything to do with the murder. Do you know what happens when someone is hypnotized?"

"Um… I know a little. I know the purpose of hypnosis is to create a state of deep relaxation in which it is easier to implant suggestions into the subconscious…"

Browning looked to her expectantly, sure at any moment, it seemed, that she would catch on. "Yes. _Deep_ relaxation. Heart rate and respiration slow dramatically, brain activity decreases, muscles loosen and release… You're sooo relaxed… and the tongue and the soft-palate _slliide_ back…"

"And completely block the airway." Harley finished, jaw dropping open as the realization hit her. "Ar-are you telling me… that… he convinced him… to swallow his own tongue?"

"It's perfect," Browning said admiringly, shaking her head in awe. "There's not a judge in the country that would see that conviction through… He killed him… but he never laid one finger on him… There's no better explanation for the state of the body… There's our mysterious murderer, right there… and he's gonna get away with it scot-free…"

"That son of a bitch," Wilhelm muttered.

"What is it?" Harley inquired.

"We never had a chance against him, did we?"

"I don't understand—"

"Him… The Captain. He's smart… smarter than all of us… and he knows it." He reached for the remote, Browning handing it to him after a moment. He rewound the tape again to 1:30:15, pressing pause. "There… you see… he looks right at the camera."

Harley shook her head again. "But we all saw that—"

"You don't get it," Wilhelm interrupted again, pointing back to the TV screen. "That camera? The one he's looking at? Do you see that symbol on the map? How D-15 has a slash through the circle and D-16 doesn't? That camera is one of 30 cameras in the building that is _recessed_. It's hidden inside of a ceiling vent. That camera? He shouldn't even know it's _there_."

OOO

Chapter End Notes:

Alright! So, from the very beginning of the story I have wanted to do this, because it was my absolutely favorite part of Silence Of The Lambs, and has pretty much summed up Hannibal Lecter's mystique for me in one single action. He convinced him to swallow his own tongue. I mean, how much more efficient can you get? Killing someone without ever touching them? Now, while it is physiologically impossible to swallow one's own tongue, it is, however, possible to suffocate upon the tongue and the soft palate. It's why they tell you to turn a person who's having a seizure onto their side, to keep them from choking to death. I've drawn from Silence of The Lambs and, to some smaller extent, Hannibal a lot while writing Genesis, and I can so see the Joker doing this... So that's my reason for having the Colonel share the same unfortunate (but AWESOME!) fate as Miggs.


	34. Chapter 26: Exodus, Part 1

Author's Chapter Notes:

Oh my god, the final part! *gasps* The fact this story is finally ending should be amazing to some. *LOL* This part is going to be like Recollections in that it jumps around in time a little, though all the jumps are through presently occurring events.

This first part is pretty short, but the two after it are longer. Welcome to the beginning of the end, ladies.

OOO

It was such lousy weather, Harley thought absently.

That seemed like something safe to think about after the day she'd had.

There were other things, things she didn't want to dwell on, like exactly how hard the back of his hand had slammed into her jaw when she'd confronted him about the camera, or maybe the exact scathing tone of his voice that had just reduced her knees to water.

She was a grown woman, a Lieutenant, a Doctor, and yet somehow he could still reduce her to a sniveling child in a matter of seconds… God, what had he done to her?

But he'd hit her so hard, she'd crumpled, her whole head hurt, she had every reason to cry…

And then he had been so harsh with her, fingers wrapped into her hair beneath the chignon just like some elaborate and gaudy ring of gold.

"You listen to me, you insolent _child_ if I should ever be so fortunate to include you in my purposes, it is a privilege, and don't you ever dare question how I do so, if you wish to continue being in such purposes… Kay?"

He gave her a beautiful smile, then slammed her head into the wall.

Once she'd come to again, (it must have been some time later, for the sky had brightened, and begun to darken again) it was amazing just how much makeup it took to cover the bruises. And how much they hurt.

How proud she felt just to have any mark of his on her form.

Once she finally had the bruise upon the right side of her face covered, she'd called Pamela.

"I need you to come get me."

"You idiot. You should have called me forty minutes ago…"

"I had an appointment run over. Sorry, Pam."

"Eh, I'm ready to go home anyway. This paperwork is getting boring… I want to get in the greenhouse, do some actual worthwhile work."

"Obsessed," she minced.

"Kettle." Pamela replied smartly, and Harley smiled, wincing.

"Thank you, Pammy."

"Yeah right. Like when did your bum ass ever buy a car? I'll call you when I get there."

Harley laughed, and lay her head listlessly against her hand, and instantly regretted doing so.

Her cheek really did smart, and her temple was throbbing. She would need to keep herself in profile at all times, lest Pam begin to notice the puffiness that was rapidly forming.

She found herself navigating carefully around Pamela's convertible sometime later, and in the driveway of Pamela's shortly before the sun disappeared altogether.

"God, it's been such a long day, I'm just gonnna take a shower and go to bed."

The feeble yawn she added went unappreciated as Pamela made her way determinedly from the car and straight into her backyard.

Harley shook her head, gathered her bags, and went straight to what had become her room. It always seemed as though the phone liked to ring awful times, like during dinner, or when you were freshly showered and dressed for bed and had the mother of all headaches for doing something very stupid.

Harley answered the phone tiredly, carefully cradled against her left shoulder.

"Hello?" she mumbled.

"Ms. Harleen Quinzel?" The voice was deep and smooth. She liked the sound of it, she thought sleepily, and yawned for real this time.

"That would be me: Doctor, however, Quinzel."

"Well, Miss However, seems like we've got a problem here at your apartment building."

"What?" She sat up in bed, and the world swam as the throbbing in her head became more intense.

"You really haven't heard, huh? About the fire?"

"Fire?"

"Yesterday. There was a fire on your floor, building's been evacuated due to structural damage; it's safe, just  
unliveable... Weird how it happened really, the fire was so damned efficient, you'd think it knew what it was doing." He snickered quietly.

She frowned, deeply, disturbed by the sound.

"My things?"

"Oh, they're mostly safe, just likely problem is water damage, some smoke. The building's insurance is footing the bill, you know, you might as well get in on the bargain. It's a little late, I know, but we've been processing claims all day. You're one of the last people we could managed to find. One of your neighbor's saw you leaving with um… well, whoever's got this number, redhead, right?"

Harley shook her head, winced silently, and stopped moving her head as much as possible as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Look, uh, it's fine. I'll head on out, and I'll see what's been damaged."

"Great, great… See you soon, Doc."


	35. Chapter 26: Exodus, Part 2

Author's Chapter Notes:

Alright, so this one I might have to ask for your forgiveness on. I spent most of the story in either Harley's, or some other character's (i.e. ChildJoker) point of view. This is the first time I have attempted to write as the Joker himself. The original idea of a three part last chapter has changed. I'm not sure how many it will take before we get to the prologue, so just bear with me, readers. Unbetaed as usual. Forgive me!

OOO

There is a shaft of moonlight through the stairwell window as he ascends without sound to the Orthopedic Ward, and he casts a shadow as he passes through it. He smiles to himself, though he does not even have to try anymore to do that.

It is simply there, unalterable, a visceral and visual representation of how he has changed, because he has changed, oh, how he has.

There is no alarm on this door and he continues on just like a mouse to a second corner on the right to where he meets Nunez.

"I did like you said, man, I watched all the video that he had. The fucker's trying to kill you. He's talking to some guy named Hotchkiss, yelling about why he didn't finish it the first time. What the hell is going on m—what are you doing, man?"

He crosses behind him.

The Latino's voice rises then, the panic bring him up to a near falsetto set edge, edge like a knife, till he cuts and the bag of meat screams, because that's all they are now, all of them, even him, just bones and flesh and that's all that it comes down to whether he puts a bullet through their brain or makes it a little more personal. They're all just tissue and bone.

He hums along to the whir of the wheels on the tile, a nice sound. Nicely oiled wheels, he remarks to the dead man as they spin faster still, good maintenance staff here.

The expression is incredulous and stupefied and just fucking hilarious.

"This is not funny, man, what are you doing, motherfucker, stop it." He reaches for the wheel, even locks one finger in a spoke. It breaks and his associate yelps and he can't help but giggle.

"That was completely unnecessary. This doesn't have to be painful you know, and it's very easy."

They reach their final destination and the man squirms, fights, and gives it the old American try that his grandfather before him had adopted but he has reached terminal velocity and he screams with laughter as the chair takes flight.

It is momentarily weightless, until suddenly gravity takes and it tips forward. The crown of the body contacts first, the neck bends, and breaks in one swift snap. The body crumples like a rag doll, tangled up with the tilt-a-whirling wheelchair in a way that brings a great guffaw.

He claps his hands for the corpse. Unutterably a fabulous performace.

"Don't you see? You did it on the first try."

OOO

He is on the seventh floor, at the very top, and he feels very on top of things right now as he opens without knocking the door of one Christopher Smith.

The lamp is lit and casts a neat little circle around his body.

There is a book propped on his knees, and old comic and he has a thermos of water in his good hand and flipping pages with the stub of an arm, just bone and skin that stuck out, stuck out like he did and he could almost feel like regretting this one but this one was necessary, just like all the other's were necessary, though probably not as necessary as the very last two, no, not by far.

He spins a chair around and sits astride it, tilting his head. His hair barely droops to the side, and he kind of misses it, he thinks that he might grow it back, and then he remembers the man in front of him again.

"What the hell? This is not cool at all, I could have been jacking off for all you know, you asshole. What shady shit is it now? I'm getting a little antsy here. This is getting to be a lot for me, conspiracy theories, espionage, I mean, this is big time. I gave everything to Eddie, man, I'm done with all this. Where is he? Go talk to him."

"Eddie's dead, I'm afraid."

He tries not to smile, his lips do not curl, to be serious, but really, how can he?

"He's asleep?" Nunez asks.

He tilts his head in the opposite direction.

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose. Also in a manner of speaking, he is lying at the bottom of a stairwell because I pushed him down it."

"W-what? What the fuck? What kind of thing is that to joke about?"

He laughs, and heartily, enjoys it just as he enjoys the look on his face, the confusion and the rising terror and he can almost smell it now, like blood in the water but somewhere lower. He smiles, feels his skin stretch against the scars, knows his teeth flash white in the dark, so many exposed, just like a shark.

"I'm not joking. Isn't that great? I don't even have to try on that one, it was effortless. And I'm not just talking about the job but anyway, back to what we were talking about-"

"I know too much."

"I always knew you were the smart one. I'll miss your services by the way, you were very, heh, handy, but I'm having to, uh, terminate the contract."

The man throws all that he has, the book, and darts for the foot of the bed.

He bats the paper away. It is more annoying than helpful, for Smith catches one knee on the footboard of the bed and he is head first into the floor, spraying blood and moaning and he'd better make this quick or he is going to attract more attention than he wanted to.

He is on him straddling his right leg, drawing the hospital tunic into a noose and his torso into a bow. There is gauze on the nurse's cart. It finds its way into his mouth. He mumbles, gags.

"What is it with you, people? Don't any of you just give up and die? It's going to happen eventually, but I can make this painful, or not. See, right now, right now, I'm thinking you're choosing painful. You want painful?"

He stabs three times, carefully avoids lung, liver, and kidney.

"Do you feel that? Is that painful enough?" He feels the curve of his ear against his lips, presses his own against the man's mouth.

The man groans through the cotton. It is dull and muffled, and he almost wishes he could hear it in its full glory. But he will savor all he can, these last anguished screams, his work and his masterpiece, the very culmination of all his effort.

The knee he draws up hard, ramming it into his testicles.

"Do you understand? What you've done? You've brought all this on yourself. It could have been easy. It could have been quiet and clean. I admire that. Congratulations."

There is that swish that he knows so well and no pressure in his grip as he draws through and goes right to the bone. The blood in great gouts splashes out onto his hand, warm and throbbing all of its own and something he never tires of really, the way one does of everything else, like goldfish and chewing gum wrappers.

It always ends though, and that pathetic gurgle at the end, the viscous drool from the mouth, belching up blood.

He washes and changes and climbs over the bed in one long legged sprawl. He must be careful not to step in the still growing puddle. He doesn't want to leave tracks where he is going.

As he glances behind to flip the switch, there is a bland rectangle of thin fluorescent light on the tile. The blood seems dark and distant on the white, like a hole and not a solid.

Now, to phase two. He locks and shuts the door.

All is dark inside.


	36. Chapter 27: Exodus, Part 3

The hallway is dim as he makes his way down the stairwell, down into the bowels of the hospital.

There it is, a neat little door, painted red and black with the word 'Maintenance' emblazoned across the front. He pries open the locks, pitifully thin for how important this room is. Inside there are boxes and wires, so many marvelous toys to play with. He knows the one he wants, the first, and pries that open as well. There are many little wires inside and he switches one here, one there. He is scrambling the phone lines, making the outward lines inward, the inward outward. He doesn't want anyone getting out, no, not tonight.

The next box is much easier. He takes his knife and slices through the wires, hears the entire hospital powering down. The alarm goes off then, the backup generators taking over. There are life support systems to keep running after all. The light outside of the room is thin and yellow, flashing in its emergency pattern, and he uses the neat little kit he found within the room to weld the door shut. He does not wear a mask (the sparks are really quite pretty).

No one will be in there to fix the damage tonight.

He knows which floor they will be coming to, and takes his place in the shadows to wait. A man in a blue jumpsuit makes his way down first, bee lining for the door, and he is on him before he knows what is happening. The knife slashes quick through his throat, outward, tearing through larynx before carotid and jugular. The man goes down without a noise.

He drags the body into the dark. Soon, the man's radio begins to whir with static.

"Maurice, what in the hell is going on down there?"

He unhooks the radio from the man's belt loop, presses the button with glee.

"Maurice isn't here right now. He's a little incapacitated, mainly because I slit his throat." He laughs and ends the transmission, turning the radio off. He knows who they will send next. He is on the night shift tonight, he checked the schedule in his wanderings.

It takes barely minutes, he must have been close, before he hears footsteps on the stairwell. His gun is drawn, but he has cover to his advantage. He slips behind him in the shadows, falls on him with all his weight, sending him headfirst into the concrete wall. He is stunned, but not out, he wouldn't want that.

He forces Knauer on his belly, pins him with a knee in his lower back. The man groans, bewildered, unable to gain his bearings. He takes a handful of hair and brings his head back, throat taut.

"You thought she wanted you. But she's mine, Captain, she's always been mine," he whispers into his ear. "You thought you were her knight in shining armor. You thought you could save her. You were wrong."

He slices thin along the throat, not enough to sever the arteries fully: he wants this to be slow, as slow as he can make it. The man whimpers, clasps uselessly at his throat, curled into a ball and spasming.

He snatches the man's gun from his hand, his keys and cell phone from his pockets. He grabs his bag of tricks, welds the next door shut, the one at the top of the stairs.

He knows where he will go next.

OOO

She cannot sleep. Pamela flips listlessly through the channels. A dozen forms covered in sheets laid out on concrete catches her attention, and she flips back.

"This is breaking news, Channel 13, first on the scene. What you are seeing here is only half of over two dozen bodies discovered in Hines VA. Patients, security guards, nurses, doctors, administrators. Most have been met their end by knives, throats slit and some stabbed to death. Three, the hospital administrator, his secretary, and a currently unidentified Major, were found shot to death in the office of the first. The carnage is unbelievable. Ten patients on life support have already died, their intubation tubes cut. The hospital continues to run on back up power. The power lines leading into the hospital have been cut, the phone lines scrambled. One security guard, managed to make a 911 call on his cell phone."

The woman paused, her hand pressed over the microphone in her ear.

"There is a new development. The police have released security camera footage of who they think is the man responsible."

Grainy footage flashes across the screen, a long lanky figure in hospital pajamas, with a face that she recognizes.

"This man is believed to have fled the scene in a red pickup truck, last seen driving north. He is believed to be a patient here. No name has yet been released, but if you see this man, the police advise you not to approach. He is considered to be armed and dangerous. Keep your distance, and call the police. He is believed to have killed over twenty-six people, with the death toll still rising. He has killed before, and the police believe he will kill again."

She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. She rushed from her bedroom to the spare one.

"Harley, Harley, wake up, something's happened."

She spoke to an empty room. Inside, the light on the answering machine was flashing. One message.

She reached out slowly, pressed the button.

"Hello?" Harley's voice.

"Ms. Harleen Quinzel?".

"That would be me: Doctor, however, Quinzel."

"Well, Miss However, seems like we've got a problem here at your apartment building."

"What?"

"You really haven't heard, huh? About the fire?"

"Fire?"

"Yesterday. There was a fire on your floor, building's been evacuated due to structural damage; it's safe, just unliveable... Weird how it happened really, the fire was so damned efficient, you'd think it knew what it was doing." A quiet snicker.

Pamela frowned, deeply.

"My things?"

"Oh, they're mostly safe, most likely problem is water damage, some smoke. The building's insurance is footing the bill, you know, you might as well get in on the bargain. It's a little late, I know, but we've been processing claims all day. You're one of the last people we could manage to find. One of your neighbor's saw you leaving with um… well, whoever's got this number, a redhead, right?"

"Look, uh, it's fine. I'll head on out, and I'll see what's been damaged."

She'd gone to her apartment building, and Pamela thought she knew exactly who had called. The time matched up perfectly.

She threw on a jacket, grabbed her keys, and rushed for the door.


	37. Chapter 27: Exodus, Part 4

The apartment building is dark as she arrives, though the street light still burns. She sees one other vehicle in the empty parking lot. A diesel truck, a red one like Knauer's monstrosity. She exits Pamela's truck, feet padding silently across the pavement as she makes her way to the front doors. They are both shattered. She pauses, thinks it strange, but rationalizes it as some damage left by the firefighters, and steps over the torn police tape and into the lobby.

She is uneasy already, clasps one hand around her Ruger, one around a flashlight, one wrist balanced over the other. There wasn't something strange about this, there was _everything _strange about this. Something was going on, and she was not leaving the house unarmed. The elevators had been turned off, the lights as well. There was smoke damage even down here, and the lobby smelled of melted wires and burnt drywall. She made her way carefully to the stairwell, kept her arms raised and her handgun before her. Flight after flight, she saw detritus, doors axed through, dropped valuables from fleeing tenants. There had been a horrible fire here, and they would have been very lucky if no one had died from it.

Farther down the register of scents, she smelled gasoline. Arson, that was what this was. But who, and why? And why had it happened while she was conveniently not there? It smacked of conspiracy, and she knew but one person capable of such Machiavellian planning.

She reached the door to her floor, and realized immediately that this was where the fire had started. The walls were black, half burnt to the floor, she could see into each apartment as she made her way down the hallway to her own. She found the door opened, her things inside nothing but cinders. Tears slid down her face as she realized the memories she had lost here, all of her Father's pictures, her Mother's, Gregory's. She stopped to reach for a charred remnant of a picture on her coffee table.

"Glad to see you could make it," said a deep voice, but it sounded effected, like a child playing dress up.

She wheeled about, gun and flashlight raising again.

"I don't think so," Jack whispered, and put a bullet through her hand.

She screamed, losing her grip on the gun, and cradled the hand to her chest. He was on her in less than a second, smashing her head into what was left of the drywall.

She heard him laugh before it all slipped away.

OOO

The halls are red with blood he thinks, skips gleefully along it. There are patients hiding in their rooms, nurses lying dead along the halls, security guards with heads in little tiny pieces all throughout the hospital. He knows where he is going.

He sees the French doors before him, sees his foot contact with the doors handles, the weak wood crashing inward. The secretary is surprised, wrenching back from her desk. It does not take him a moment to realize that she is no secretary at all.

"Diana, Diana, my dear, what has brought you here? Still clinging to your Father's coattails?"

She reaches slowly beneath the desk.

"Ah ah ah. I wouldn't move if I were you."

"Fuck you," she snarls, and darts forward. He puts a bullet between her eyes, and she falls face-first into the desk top, twitching.

There is rustling in the office beyond, the click of a light switch. He grins and steps forward, presses his ear to the door. The middle, to the left. He tries the door handle. Locked.

He puts a foot into it, hears the flimsy lock shatter, takes a second to listen, and fires center, to the left, hears screams as his reward. He reaches behind him, flips the light switch to on, finds his quarries in a corner, and collapsed behind the desk.

"My boys, so wonderful to see you tonight. Betcha didn't think this would happen, did you?"

Standen has taken a bullet to the shoulder, close to the heart, but he is still breathing, but he is not who he says he is. The Major in the corner, Hotchkiss, yes, that was his name, he remembered now, one to the knee.

"General… Vreeland," he says slowly. "I haven't seen you since graduation day, and you, Major, well, you remember the last time we met. I do." He grins.

The Major reaches for his weapon as Vreeland does little but gurgle, clutching his chest. He puts a bullet through his wrist, and watches Hotchkiss collapse again. He adds another to the knee for good measure.

The man is wailing in agony, and the sound is so, so sweet.

"You left me to die, Hotchkiss, and you," he spun on Vreeland, put a bullet in his stomach. "You ordered it."

"Full circle we've come, boys. It's amazing how these little things happen. It just so happens I'm transferred here, just so happens you're the administrator, just so happens I find just enough time to put one of your bugs underneath your desk. I still haven't forgot that lockpicking you taught me. My dear, dear associate kept watch at the door, but he's gone now, I'm afraid, as will you be. You thought you were safe here, thought you could lay out all your little plans here, that you'd be unheard. That you'd _get me _this time, tie up all your little loose ends."

He clucked his tongue, padded his way across the floor, and put all his weight on Hotchkiss' wrist, listened to him wail.

"I've dreamed of this moment, for months. How I'd make you suffer, the way I did, how I'd take away everything you loved, just like you did."

"Fuck you, faggot." He spits at him, and Jack brings the butt of the gun through his teeth, listens to him scream again.

"I'll just have to settle for this."

He brings the pistol down again, and again, watches teeth and nose and cheekbones shatter inward, until there is nothing left of a face but a hole.

He hears movement across the room. Vreeland is dragging himself, from under his desk, leaving a river of blood in his wake. He coughs, bringing up blood, and it is wonderful to watch him suffer, watch him bleed.

"You never liked poor little me, did you?" He clucked again, humming as he weaved his way toward him.

"You were a rabid dog. You had to put down," the man gasps, his voice burbling.

"Looks like it didn't work," he whispered, knelt down next to the useless body and patted his cheek carefully. "Your daughter's dead, you know, and you didn't make a single step to save her, did you? What kind of a monster does that make you?"

The man opens his mouth, and Jack rams the gun down his throat, shatters the back of his skull with a bullet. The blood soaks into the knees of his pajamas, and he rises from his kneel, ejects the spent clip, and snaps another into place. He slides it into his waistband, and whistles as he spins the ring of keys around a fingertip.

He has other places to be.

OOO

She floats in darkness.

There is pressure at her wrists, pressure on her palm.

She wakes with a wail as something digs into the wound in her palm, and the concrete beneath her hand shakes.

She screams, tries to jerk her hand back, screams more when her flesh rips and it does not move.

Her eyes are focused, her adrenaline pumping. She reaches out with her free hand, tears with her nails, hears a hiss and the form turns toward her, some sort of tool in his hand.

"Jack?" She quavers, unbelieving.

"Oh good, you're awake. I was beginning to think I wouldn't have time to enjoy this fully."

He bounces over her, gleefully, wrenches her arm nearly out of the socket, and slams his knees into her wrist, placing the instrument into her uninjured palm. A hiss, and her flesh is torn by metal. It embeds itself into the floor beneath her.

"A bolt gun. Can you believe they were already trying to fix this place up? And after all the hard work I paid him to do." He cackles above her, and she cannot stop screaming, she is in agony.

"How could you do this?" she whispers, trembling, rocking her flesh agains the bolts as she shakes.

He tsks, leans over her, presses a kiss to her open, howling lips.

"You wanted to understand me, pooh. I'm giving you the opportunity."

He moves away from her, down toward her feet. She kicks at him uselessly, feeling dizzy already. Pools of blood leak out around her hands.

"Stop moving," he roars, struggling to pin her feet to the ground. "You're going to break a bone, silly. That comes later!"

He succeeds, knee over her shin, and the gun hisses again, and her foot is planted, stretched and taut along the floor where it is pinned, between the bones.

He succeeds with the other before she can gain the fight again, and she twists in anguish. She is trapped, bolted to the floor, and he is going to kill her, she knows he will. She'll never get out of this alive, and she sobs, tears burning her face and snot choking in her throat.

"Please don't do this!" she screams, looking for him vainly. He is out of her line of sight.

"Shh shh shh, no, I didn't plead. I took it in silence. You're disappointing me, Harley-girl."

He is away in the darkness. She hears metal rattling, and the tremors are agony unto themselves as the bolts remain unmoving against her jittering flesh.

"I found toys, baby, lots of toys. We're going to have so much fun together before you go." He giggles in the shadows, and she screams again, screams and sobs until she can taste blood when she coughs, choking on mucus.

"You had all these sweet little plans for us, baby, but they weren't realistic. I couldn't take you along. You're a liability. You have a past, a name, ways for people to look for you. You'd slow me down, darling, and you'd never last in Gotham. They'd tear you apart, Sweetpea. Better that I do it, than them."

The dim light glints off metal as he approaches her again, straddles and kneels down above her.

"You've got such beautiful skin, so unmarked. I always wanted to change that."

He slashes across her chest then, and the wound sinks to the bone, a scalpel. She can barely find the strength to scream anymore, as he makes his way across her body, cutting here and slicing there.

"Please, please, stop this. I love you! Please!"

He shushes her, bends down and presses his lips to her forehead, whispering to her soothingly, terrifying and quiet.

"It'll all be over soon, my pet. Just a little while longer. If you love me, you'll let me have my fun."

"No," she sobs, and he slaps her across the face then.

"What did you just say to me?" he hisses, and his hand is tight around her chin, his grip enough to break bones she thinks. She screams again. "I ought to cut your tongue out, you insolent little bitch."

She wails, and cannot think of a time when she has not been screaming.

It is getting hard to breathe through her sobbing, her heart thuds and jumps and races.

"Please," she whispers. "I love you. I won't slow you down. I'll learn, I'll adapt. Please, let me go with you."

He turns her head, runs his fingertips, warm and rough, down her cheek.

"So loyal… so sweet. Even till death."

He is gone again, and she hears the grinding of wood before he returns.

"I'm going to give you a gift, my darling. To bind us forever. See, this knife, this knife is like the one he used on me. Serrated, dull teeth, rusted with blood. See, this knife was too sharp. I want you to see, I want you to see how it felt. I want you to see." His voice quavers, and his eyes glitter above her, and she sees the sadness there, somewhere deep within. She stares into those eyes, and can feel nothing but love for him.

"Yes," is all she can say, and then he is cutting.

OOO

"It's about fucking time!" Pamela screams, racing for the cop car.

"Wasting our time over this bullshit, I should have you locked up for filing a false report. She's probably off fucking some guy."

"She's here," Pamela yells. "I know she's here. I heard screaming, from up there." She points.

The officer sighs in irritation, motions for his partner to follow him. Pamela follows them both.

"Stay the fuck back. You're gonna sit your ass down here, and you're gonna let us do our job."

"Fuck you," she hisses, and races past them through the doors.

They yell after her, race up the stairwell behind her, but though she is not faster she has the lead on them, and gets to the floor before they do, to the apartment before they do.

He is kneeling over her, sawing at her face, and Pamela screams for the police. The man looks up, snarling at her like a dog, and races away, into the darkness, the steak knife clattering to the ground beside Harley.

Pamela rushes to her, kneels down beside her. She is pale, the blood bright red on her skin, her eyes blood shot.

"You scared him away," she sputters, drools through the incision on the right side of her face. "You scared him away!"

"Harley, oh god." Pamela jerks away in disgust.

One officer kneels beside her, the other races into the darkness. He is on his radio, calling for an ambulance, calling for back up.

"Jack!" she screams. "Jack!"

OOO

They must bring a special tool to remove the bolts from the concrete. She fights them with all of her ebbing strength, and must be tied to the stretcher as they take her away.

"Who do we have to contact?" The officer, Daniels, is saying to her, but she can barely hear him over Harley's cries within her mind.

"I'm her next of kin," Pamela whispers.

"I'm not a doctor, but I think she needs help. Anybody that is in love with the guy who mutilates her is cracked, you know it, and I know it."

"I want her taken to the psychiatric ward after she gets out of the emergency room." Pamela looks up finally, face blank and cold. "I'll file the papers with the magistrate, have her put under involuntary hold."

The man nods, and backs away.

"He got away," she whispered. "He got away, scot free."


	38. Epilogue

Pamela sits in the sterile white of the emergency room. Harley's skin is the color of the walls. Her hands and feet are sewn shut, stitches on the inside and outside, bound in bandages, but she cannot see those beneath the warmed hospital blanket, white, too. She is a mass of stitches, all across her body. Her cheek has been stitched shut, a long curled incision. The doctor calls it half of a Glasgow smile, though Pamela has never heard the term. The machines beep, measuring Harley's heartbeat, blood pressure, and oxygen. They have given her two blood transfusions. The doctor tells her another few minutes of it, and she would have been dead. He speaks of her body and not of her mind, and Pamela thinks the change there is more important than what has happened to her body.

She remembers her from earlier in the night (it is early morning now), foaming red at the mouth as she fought the EMT's, tried to get up and run after the freak. The cops never find him, and the red truck is gone by the time they make it back down the stairs. They report the plates to the media, and the truck is found within an hour, abandoned at a gas station. The attendant reports seeing a tall, thin man in what looked like bloody hospital pajamas.

Within another three hours, another car is reported stolen at a motel, one with a bag full of clothes inside. He has had four hours of good driving on the interstate. He is miles away now, and while Pamela feels relief for Harley's safety, she cannot stop the anger that he is either so fucking smart, or so fucking lucky, that they just can't find him. An APB has been put out, but they have nothing but black and white security footage, and the meager information that Pamela knows: his name.

Harley is pumped with so many painkillers that she does not even make a sound as she sleeps. Her head lolls to the side, and Pamela thinks she is a broken doll; soft, blonde hair spread out upon the pillow, lips swollen and red from the injury to her mouth.

It took hundreds of stitches to put her back together: her mouth, her hands, her feet, her legs and arms, her torso, every bit of her torn to shreds and cut down to the bone. There is an old scar between her breasts that Pamela has never seen before, the letter J, for Jack, she thinks, and a scrawled 'MINE' across her stomach that was brand new and gushing blood, almost deep enough to enter her abdominal cavity, the doctor said.

How could anyone come through this in one piece? What if she ended up just like the freak: completely out of her mind and raving mad? What if she was already? The doctors have told her that she can stay as long as she wants, they won't be taking her away until they trust that she is stable. She is filing papers in the morning, to keep her in the hospital. Maybe they can fix her, drive her out of this obsession with a madman, bring her back to reality, or maybe just hold her together, like the stitches do.

Her eyes flutter, and Pamela's attention is on her again. She breathes deep, whimpers, opens her eyes fully and speaks with a cracked voice.

"I hurt," she mumbles, impaired by the stitches.

Pamela knows she does, but does not call for a nurse yet.

"Do you know why you're here, Harley?"

She grunts as she tries to move her body, face wrinkled in anguish.

"Daddy wanted to play," she whispers, and Pamela closes her eyes, cannot stop the tears building behind them. "But I didn't play right. He left me behind. We were supposed to go together."

Pamela seizes upon the moment, even as the tears streak down her face.

"Where were you going, Harley?"

"It's a secret," she says, and smiles despite the stitches, giving a tiny cry afterwards. "I'll never tell."

Pamela can take no more, and exits the room with her things.

"She's awake, and in pain," she says to a nurse as she passes by, tears streaming down her face despite her best efforts.

She winds her way out of the emergency room, and crawls into her corvette.

_She might as well be dead, _she thinks. There's nothing inside anymore. Only a twisted, hacked up remnant of what she was before.

They'll never put her back together.

OOO

_3 Months Later_

It is visiting day. Pamela comes here twice a week and sees the same scene. The stitches are gone, but the scars are there. Her head lolls, she is nearly drooling. She is in a padded room, in a straitjacket for 'her' safety. Pamela knows why she is: she has attacked the staff twice, succeeding in stabbing one orderly in the throat with her group therapist's pen.

"Hello, Miss Isley." It is a smooth and cultured voice, and Pamela knows who it belongs to without turning to see the face.

"Dr. Leland."

"I know this is hard for you to see, but she is a danger to herself and others."

Pamela finds it hard to believe someone so small could be a danger to anyone.

"We've been working with her medication. We hope to find a medication that will stabilize her moods, and decrease her aggression."

"You mean dope her up till she's not a threat anymore."

The good doctor sighs.

"That is not what I meant. We are trying to wean her off of the benzodiazepines. She isn't responding very well to traditional therapy."

"Why would she?" Pamela whispers. "She knows all your tricks."

"Yes, I know that she was a psychiatrist prior to the incident."

"The _attack._" Pamela spits, bitterly.

"Yes," the doctor says again.

"I want to talk to her. I want you to let me in there and let me talk to her."

"I don't think that's a very good idea."

"I think it's a fine idea. I want to know what you people have been doing to her."

"You don't understand, Miss Isley. She hasn't spoken a word since she's arrived here. She hisses, and growls, and screams, like a wild cat. Even before the incident in group therapy, she has shown no interest in socializing with the other patients. What makes you think she'll talk to you?"

"Because I'm not a stranger," she hisses, and the older woman flinches for a moment.

"Alright. Saturday, we will forgo the thorazine. You'll be allowed thirty minutes, under guard. We will not remove the jacket, and she does not leave her room. You understand?"

OOO

Her eyes are still blurry as Pamela kneels beside her. She lolls her head, looks at the ceiling, the floor, the walls. She feels like she's living in a marshmallow. Everything is squishy, and sometimes she bounces off the walls when she knows they're not looking.

She licks her lips often now, drives her tongue into the corner of her mouth, where it starts, the beautiful mark he left behind. Had he done it as a gift, or was it a punishment? He had told her what he would do if someone ever touched her, but he had told her that he wanted to leave her with a gift.

He had not intended to leave her alive, she knows this, but it does not decrease her feelings for him. She loves him fiercely, to the death, and she will never stop until she finds him again.

She rolls her eyes back to Pamela, finds the redhead on her knees, an arms-length away if she could move her arms.

"Pammy," she whispers, and she finds it strange that she still knows names and words and funny little things that happen when her tongue and her breath move together. "You look pretty today."

"Thank you," Pamela whispers. It is a child's voice that speaks to her, high and lilting. "How are you, Harley?"

"They keep me locked up here, like I'm a bad girl. I want my Daddy," she whimpers.

Pamela knows the truth. She is shattered, gone forever, beyond repair.

She leaves the room after a few more minutes of juvenile conversation, and tries not to think of her in the nine months after. She tries, until she receives a phone call. It is the good doctor.

"Miss Isley. I've called with good news. I believe we've gotten her medication right. She is participating in group therapy, with guards, of course, but she speaks to them, to the staff, to the other patients. She is not ready to leave yet, but she's made amazing progress in the last month. You should come and see her. I think it would do her good."

"No," Pamela says quietly. "It won't do me any good. I can't stand seeing her like that."

She hangs the phone up, and walks away from it.

OOO

_One Year Later_

They all look like toys to her. Like marionettes, she only has to make the right moves and they respond just as she wants them to. She smiles to herself, feels the smile take up her whole face. He is coming tonight, she knows he is. He cannot resist. Soon, something moves beyond the glass and wire, and his face appears, as much of it as shows through the little window.

She giggles, and presses a sloppy kiss against the glass, and she laughs, and he's just so stupid Harley wants to rip his throat out, but that comes later.

"Baby, baby, oh baby. I missed you. Why leave me alone for so long?" She says, voice high and silvery.

"You know why, I can't see you all the time. They'd catch on. I've missed you," he says, and his breath fogs the glass.

"Let me out, Gary, let me out or come in and see me. I've waited for so long. I love you," she whimpers, tears glittering in her pale blue eyes, and isn't he just a sucker for it.

"I can't do that. You know it."

"But how will we ever be together, if you never come in, never let me out? We could be together, Gary, you could let me out of here, you could tell them I slipped out during cell check. You could say I knocked you out, they'd believe that. We can sneak away together." She whispers, fast and soft, and he is leaning close to the glass to hear her.

His head switches from side to side, he is thinking hard about it, and Harley's heart rises in her throat. She is taut as a string and nearly snaps as the lock turns in the door, and it swings open. He enters, and Harley draws him into a kiss, one he has been craving for so long. His eyes close, and he does not see her hand moving behind her back. She pulls from the back of her pants a toothbrush, one that has taken her months to sharpen against the one bare concrete wall in the TV room. She thinks it's there to make them realize what a prison they are in, and stabs it swiftly behind his larynx, jerks outward. It is not a blade, it does not come through smoothly, and his windpipe, soft and pink, rips through his skin before the shaft of the brush makes it all the way through. There is no scream, and she throws herself atop him, stabbing swift into his abdomen, over and over again. He gurgles beneath her, clutching at his throat, his stomach. He cannot think what hurts more, she knows, for she has known pain like that.

She keeps stabbing until she hears no rushing air from his opened windpipe. Her hospital pajamas are covered in blood, and she grabs his only weapon as she slips silently out of her door, and pushes it shut. She crouches, moves fast along the wall, sees her target just before her. A quick peek tells her the night nurse is making her rounds, not at her desk, and she stands, slipping behind her and pressing the stun gun to her back.

The guard goes down, twitching, and Harley grunts as she drags her quickly back into her cell. She keeps her away from the blood-soaked padding, and strips her quickly. Her shoes are too small, but the uniform fits perfectly, and she uses her hairband to curl her hair into a bun, tucks it into the cap, and uses her key card to open the door, her keys to open her Honda and she is gone.

She knows where she is going.

OOO

There is a frantic phone call that brings her here. She has not been here in months, has not heard from the good doctor for another two.

There is police tape in the doorway of Harley's cell, fresh bloodstains on the floor, and a shivering female covered with a blanket sitting in the nurse's station.

Pamela cannot believe what she is seeing.

"She's escaped," Joan Leland rushes forward. "She's killed a guard, and she's escaped."

"What has she been doing?"

The doctor stares at her in disbelief.

"What?"

"What has she been doing lately?"

The doctor shakes her head for a moment, unable to follow the tangent.

"She's.. she's been spending most of her time out of session in the TV room. She was there this evening, before bed check."

Pamela walks to the room, empty folding chairs and a single small TV, the only objects in the room. She presses the on button, and it springs to life, the pictures on it a whirl of footage of explosions, and a mug shot spread across the screen. The TV speaks, but Pamela cannot hear it, because she recognizes the face on the screen, even beneath the makeup.

Him.

She was going to him.

"I know where she's going." Pamela whispered.

"Where?"

She does not answer her, runs from the room and forces her way past policemen to exit the ward.

She races from the hospital and to her car, speeding all the way back to her home.

It takes a moment to realize her home has been broken into, that there is a strange car in her driveway, that her truck is missing, and a moment longer to figure out who did it. She sprints inside, finds the steps down and leading up into the attic. She climbs them quickly. The light is still on, and she knows what she is after, because the books are gone, the files and the notebook full of formulas are all gone.

She packs a bag with just enough, and makes her way to the airport. They ask her where she is going.

"Gotham City," is her answer.

OOO

They lust after her, and she makes just enough money from a convenience store job to keep them happy enough not to act on it. She keeps them in line by shooting the first one to question her, and the others don't open their mouths anymore. They pull a few more jobs together, her little bunch, and she has just enough money to pay off the right people. She hears chatter about the Batman, but no one has seen him for months, and Harley Quinn has never seen him at all.

The big job she has been planning for months. She has the uniforms, the papers, and tomorrow they will make the big move, steal an ambulance and make her way across the bridge to where he is. Arkham Asylum.

Today is the day, and she covers her face carefully with a coating of latex and foundation, and you can barely see the scar at all.

She hates it, and sticks her tongue out at the mirror as she powders her face.

She dresses in her suit, crisp and clean, and settles her CDC name tag against her breast, straightening David's as he walks into the room, tie crooked, and buttons slanted to the side.

He is not the smartest, but he's the smartest she's got, and besides, Jerry is behind the wheel tonight and of little use to her inside.

She is quick on her feet, and quick with her words, and the germaphobe behind the counter believes her instantly when she says newly arrived patient Eddie Blake has been working with a terrorist, and is himself infected with a biological weapon. He doesn't even ask for the papers.

They try to lead her down the hallway, but she stops and puts on a biohazard suit, and David remains behind to tell them the carefully rehearsed words she prepared for him. She turns the corner toward Blake's cell with a stretcher, a dome of thick plastic over it, but goes farther, to 243, that's what the man from the kitchen told her.

Her heart skips a beat as she looks through the window. He is there, just like she was a few months ago, strapped and lolling and drooling. She opens the room with the master key Mack stole off the head guard a week ago, and he is tied to two concrete blocks and at the bottom of the bay now.

She opens the door, crosses the room silently, and kneels beside him, lifting his head in her hands, peering into his dull and drugged eyes.

He giggles as he looks at her.

"It's you," he slurs, head rocking backward. "You're not real."

"I am real."

"I'm just dreaming." His head slips forward, a rivulet of saliva leaking from his lips. Her heart breaks for him and she wipes at his mouth with her suit jacket.

"You've dreamed about me."

"Yeah," he laughs again. "I never got to finish. I dream all the time. This is a dream."

"It's not a dream," she whispers, and slips a syringe from her pocket, popping the cap off, tapping it, and removing the air bubbles from it. She presses his head back into the padding and slips the needle into his carotid, injecting quickly.

He jerks, goes rigid, respiration increasing, sweat popping out on his forehead.

"It's going to hurt for a moment, Daddy. It's pushing all the drugs out of your system, a one day detox. We have twenty minutes till you hit the withdrawal stage, twenty minutes to get you out of here."

He looks at her, clearly for the first time since she has entered the room.

"Put this on," she whispers to him, and he deigns to obey, lifting himself up to his full height and undressing, removing the jacket all by himsef. She cannot resist running her hands up his stomach to his chest, tracing the old scars that she remembers.

"You've lost weight," she says with a pout, wrapping her arms around him as he pulls on the white button-down. "Nobody's been taking care of you, Daddy."

He shoves her away and she giggles, and he grins at her for a moment and slips on the pants. The biohazard suit is next, the face mask covering the lower part of his face, just like hers.

"We've got one quick stop."

She returns to Blake's room, Mister J pushing the stretcher ahead of him.

She unlocks his door, catches him at the door and punches a quick hole through his trachea with a pen. He goes down choking, and Mister J is behind her, already catching on, wrenching the man off the ground and unzipping the dome. He throws the man atop it, zips it shut, watches it splatter with red as he sputters, and tries to breath.

He wheels it quickly down the hallway, Harley sprinting to keep up. David sees them coming, and pushes the gathered back with one massive arm.

"Get out of the way. He's contagious now. The bleeding's started."

The nurses and guards scatter at that declaration, and the three of them rush down the hallway, out of the door, and into the waiting ambulance. Jerry throws on the sirens just for fun, and they move swiftly through traffic, changing lanes erratically, and pushing cars out of their way.

It is setting in quicker than she calculated. He is showing the tremors now, his breathing fast and unsteady.

"Just hold on, baby. We're gonna be home soon."

OOO

He had never thought he would be here, never thought he would wear this suit again, but he'd heard it on the news, and slipped in through the kitchen's back door.

Cops are scattered throughout the area, searching frantically in two of the open cells.

"Gordon," he growls, and the man spins on him, looking as though he's near a stroke.

"You shouldn't be here," are his first words, and Bruce nods in return.

"How did it happen?" He says, voice low and gruff.

They slip away, Gordon leading him into an empty room, marked 'Security.'

"I want you to watch this footage. They come in with two, they separate, and she goes into two separate cells. I give you one guess who the first one is."

"Who is she?"

"We don't know. She didn't leave anything behind, she was wearing that suit."

He points to the screen again.

"They walk in with two, and they leave with four."

Gordon shakes his head, one hand clenched into a fist.

"Public Enemy Number One, the most dangerous man in Gotham… and he walks right out the front fucking door."


End file.
